Harry Potter and the Natural 20
by Sir Poley
Summary: Milo, a genre-savvy D&D Wizard and Adventurer Extraordinaire is forced to attend Hogwarts, and soon finds himself plunged into a new adventure of magic, mad old Wizards, metagaming, misunderstandings, and munchkinry. Updates Thursdays.
1. Chapter 1: Solo Adventures

Disclaimers: This story is a Dungeons and Dragons/Harry Potter crossover, and primarily aimed at readers who are fans of both. That said, people only vaguely familiar with either Harry Potter _or_ D&D will still likely get _most_ of the enjoyment this story has to offer. For those who don't know much about _either_, reading a quick plot summary of Harry Potter and the Philospher's Stone (say, on Wikipedia) and skimming the article on D&D will likely suffice. Anyone still confused can search d20srd (.org), a wonderful website with the entirety of the D&D 3.5 rules available for free. Players of AD&D, D&D 3.0, 4th edition, Pathfinder, and probably other RPGs will probably be just fine. You can check my Author's Page for a link to Milo's character sheet, more details, and a link to Semiautomagic, an RPG I'm working on, currently available as a free beta.

For D&D buffs: this fic uses a few minor house rules which I've played with so long I didn't even realize they weren't canon. We're using 3.0's XP system instead of 3.5's (XP divides a little differently) and Wizards are able to swap out their Scribe Scroll bonus feat at 1st level for alternate class features (in this case, Spontaneous Divination) as if they were the 5th, 10th, 15th, or 20th-level bonus feats. Also, magic items like Bags of Holding track only weight for carrying capacity, not volume. I rolled Milo's stats using the usual system (4d6, drop the lowest) and roll his hit dice every level, as well as most of the other dice in combats and things.

Anyways, on with the story! If you like it, review it!

o—o—o—o

—_Thud_—

Milo hit the ground—_hard_. There was a brief moment of silence before he heard the sound of chairs being slid back on a stone floor and people rising to their feet.

He wasn't alone.

Milo quickly glanced around, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. He was in some sort of dining room, lying face-up on a hardwood table. The room was richly appointed, and Milo was keenly aware of their solid brass candlesticks, as one was currently poking him most uncomfortably in the lower back. Most notable, however, were the half-dozen figures sitting around him. They were evil—like, really, _obviously_ evil. Black robes. Masks. Hells, there was even a chandelier.

It didn't take Milo long to realize he should be putting his Improved Initiative to good use. As the cultist—these guys _had_ to be in some sort of cult—who was sitting at the head of the table reached up the sleeve of his robe for a wand, Milo unleashed sparkly arcane fury.

"_Avada Kedavr—_Aaaah!" the cultist was cut off.

"_Glitterdust_!" A cloud of blindingly bright, glowing golden particles exploded out of Milo's outspread hands, covering the cultists and their furniture. The cultists clutched at their masks, temporarily blinded by the spell. Milo paused, briefly stunned. He'd gotten _all_ of them? _Surely, as primary casters, they'd have a higher Will save than that... oh well, think later, escape first._

Taking advantage of their condition, Milo rolled off the table and made a dash for the window. Standard action to stand up, move action to hustle and jump... he figured he'd make it just in time. There was a surprisingly painful crash (_note to self: never jump through glass again_) and Milo found himself in freefall. The window, it seemed, was roughly seven storeys aboveground.

"_Feather Fall,_" Milo muttered, slowing his descent. As his feet gently touched the ground, he took stock of his surroundings. He was standing in the grounds of a rural manor, in the middle of some carefully kept gardens. The only thing between him and freedom was a clear shot over flat ground with the occasional shrub and a low fence. As he began to run, the cultists, judging by the hail of magic, recovered from their temporary blindness. An unfamiliar sparkling green bolt of light struck a shrub next to Milo, causing it to rapidly turn brown and wither.

Gulp.

"_Mirror Image,_" Milo cast, summoning a trio of identical illusory copies of himself. The four Milos bolted in different directions, splitting the cultist's fire between them. As Milo approached the edge of the manor grounds, he noticed some distinctly unfamiliar mountains in the distance. The sky, he noticed, was missing a pair of moons.

"Crap," Milo muttered. He must have gotten hit with a _Plane Shift_ or _Greater Teleport_, which was improbable, because both of those were well beyond even the supremely dark power of the Fell Lord, Thamior the Thaumaturge...

One of the illusory Milo's was hit with one of those weird green spells, vanishing instantly. As another of his doubles went down, Milo hopped the fence and ducked behind it briefly. His next spell took a little longer to cast than the others had, but Milo hoped it would pay off.

"_Mount,_" he said quietly after concentrating for a few seconds. Next to him appeared a grey pony, which, except for its eyes—which were glassy and lifeless—appeared all but indistinguishable from a natural one. Unlike the mirror images, the mount was real—depending on your definition of real, of course. It was real enough to get him the Hells out of here.

Milo awkwardly pulled himself into the saddle (he never was much of an equestrian, as Skill Points were few and far between for a Wizard) and kicked the summoned pony's rump with his heels. As he was catching his breath, thinking of how close his run-in was (if that spell could just _kill_ a plant like that, imagine what it could do to him? Milo's Fortitude save was lower than a serf's daily wage) he heard a loud _crack_ from his left. One of the cultists suddenly appeared, wand brandished threateningly.

"_Glitterdust!_" Milo cast again, burning his last 2nd-level spell. As before, the burst of golden light blinded the dark wizard. _If another one shows up, I'll have to resort to harsh language..._

"They can _teleport_?" Milo shrieked. "That's a 5th-level spell! This is _way_ beyond my ECL! I call shenanigans. _Shenanigans!_" But nobody responded. Who he was even talking to was unclear, as there wasn't another soul—except for the blinded Death Eater—in sight. After several minutes of galloping, Milo decided to rein his pony in for a short break while he considered his options.

Now you may be wondering, "what the heck is going on?" And that's a perfectly valid question, but unfortunately, Milo is as confused as you are. Perhaps a brief description of our perplexed hero is in order. As far as Milo is concerned, the information written on his character sheet sufficed as description: True Neutral, Wizard 3, Human, Male, Age: 11, Weight: 71 lbs (his world runs on the imperial system, the poor barbarians), Height: 4'9'', Hair: brown, Eyes: brown. And you may be thinking, "eleven years old? That seems a little young to be a Wizard." And you're right. Most Wizards, from where Milo comes from (more on that later) are at least seventeen before they become even a level one Wizard. Milo, however, managed to pull a fast one involving starting life as a Rogue and doing some retraining. "But wait," you protest. "That jargon doesn't mean anything to me at all. And even if it did, the minimum starting age for a human Rogue is _still_ 16." But unfortunately, you don't have time to worry about problems like that, because Milo is, in fact, being attacked by a Death Eater on a broomstick. See what happens when you nitpick?

"_Avada Kedavra!_" the evil flying cultist shouted, making weird gestures with his wand. Milo felt his pony suddenly go limp beneath him as its heart stopped. Milo collided with the ground for most of his remaining Hit Points (Milo dumped Constitution during character creation, which seemed like a _really_ good idea at the time). Weakly, he staggered to his feet as the cultist came around for another pass.

"You know, there's a reason most Wizards prefer to use a _Phantom Steed_ to a _Broom of Flying_," Milo muttered. "That reason is _Grease_!" he said, with a complicated hand gesture to accompany the last word. He cast the spell, not targeting the cultist but his broomstick, which became nearly frictionless. Without any sort of safety strap or foot petals, the broomstick continued accelerating while the cultist, unfortunately, did not. Before meeting the ground, the cultist vanished with another distinctive popping sound. Milo frowned. What kind of cultist can cast save-or-die spells multiple times, teleport, afford a _Broom of Flying_, and yet not manage a simple _Feather Fall_? _Maybe they're some obscure non-core class_? Milo thought. _Well, time to loot the corpse_. A _Broom of Flying_ would make an excellent replacement for his ex-pony, which was already starting to fade out of existence now that the magic keeping its form together was gone.

As Milo searched for the broomstick, he let his mind wander again. The last thing he'd done before slamming into that table in the manor house was confront the Supremely Evil Fell Lord Thamior the Thaumaturge (try putting _that_ on a business card) with his companions. Everything was going according to plan, then suddenly... table. Milo was _sure_ Thamior hadn't had a chance to get a spell off, especially not one of this magnitude. Maybe something over here pulled him across? Why in the Prime Material would anyone want to summon _Milo_, of all things? Milo shuddered to think of what Thamior was doing to his party without his arcane support. It was probably going to be his job upon returning to raise funds for three _Raise Deads_, because a thief, a meatshield, and a glorified box of band-aids against Thamior's power spelled T-P-K.

Milo stumbled across the broomstick, which had flown into the ground, point-first. He confidently pulled the stick out of the dirt, straddled it, and leapt into the air. Nothing happened except that Milo looked rather foolish.

"Hmm, must be command-word activated, I suppose? Swordfish!" Nothing happened. "Melon! Rise! Up! Activate! Flight! Abra Kadabra!" Ten minutes later, with all the usual suspects attempted to no avail, Milo gave up.

"_Detect Magic._" Nothing. The broomstick, as far as Milo could determine, didn't have enough magic to power a Bard's cantrip. It was an ordinary, mundane broom. For sweeping things.

"Wha... what? Then how... Agh, my poor head." Nothing happening was making _any _sense here. Maybe if he found some non-cultist residents of this strange world, they'd be able to explain things to him. Shouldering the broom, he chose a direction completely at random and started walking.

o—o—o—o

Some time after 3 AM, the villagers of Hogsmeade were surprised to find a dirty, bloodied, half-dead (or rather, five-sixths, to be precise, since you asked) young boy stumble into their village before collapsing of exhaustion. He was clutching in his hands a Nimbus Two Thousand.

"Who is he?"

"Is he a Muggle? How did he get through the wards?"

"Is he a student?"

"Blimey! Is that a Nimbus?"

"If he had a broomstick, why was he walking?"

"Someone send for Dumbledore, this kid needs help."

"I'm right here in front of you."

"No, not you, the _other_ Dumbledore."

"Oh," said Aberforth, slightly disappointed. "Nobody ever wants to send for _me_."

As the nearest medical facility was the hospital wing of Hogwarts, and, as the villagers reasoned, this boy was more likely than not some student from the castle caught up in one of their fool adventures, he was rushed with all possible haste to the care of Madam Pomfrey, and, more than likely, detention. It was a very surprised, and somewhat sleepy, Professor McGonagall who answered the door. She immediately sent a Patronus to wake the school's Headmaster before carrying the boy to the hospital wing.

"Minerva! What's happening?" Dumbledore (the right one, this time) said as he entered the wing. The Deputy Headmistress quickly filled him in about what the villagers at Hogsmeade had discovered.

Dumbledore frowned. "I don't recognize him, do you?" McGonagall shook her head.

"This is most unusual. He's clearly of an age that he should be just starting in Hogwarts, so if he's a wizard of magical Britain..." McGonagall said, trailing off in thought.

"Why don't we wake him and ask?" Dumbledore suggested.

"Poppy believes it best that we let him recover. He's suffered some fairly serious injuries—it looks like a particularly nasty fall, perhaps."

"Could he be a student of Beauxbatons—or Durmstrang? I'll owl Madame Maxime and Professor Karkaroff. In the meantime, keep me updated."

McGonagall sighed. She wouldn't give up being Deputy Headmistress for all the gold in Gringotts, but it did involve rather a lot more sleepless nights than she would have preferred.

o—o—o—o

Milo awoke to the sound of people talking quietly. The odd thing about whispers, Milo had discovered, is that they tend to catch the ear even _faster_ than ordinary talking. There were curtains around his bed, so he couldn't place a face to the speakers.

"Minerva! I—I noticed something… well, something most unusual," the first voice (female, human) said.

"What's the matter?" inquired a second (also female, human).

"The patient, he… well, he recovered," the first voice said hesitantly.

"Surely, that's good news?"

"Well, yes, normally very good news, this being an infirmary, recovery is most appreciated. But… not normally with quite the alacrity demonstrated."

"Explain."

"After _precisely_ eight hours of bed rest, the majority of his wounds simply _vanished_ before my eyes," the first voice said.

There was a brief silence.

"Well, I daresay I'm impressed. How did you do it?" the second voice—Minerva—asked.

"I _didn't_ do it!" the first voice said, her voice rising. "I hadn't actually _done_ much of anything beyond cleaning and bandaging his wounds!"

"Then… perhaps he had some Charm cast on him when he entered? Or one of the villagers did something?"

"That was the _first_ thing I checked! I think… I think the possibility should be considered that he isn't entirely human," the first voice said cautiously.

"Poppy, get professors Dumbledore, Snape, Flitwick, and Sprout—in that order," Minerva commanded. "I'll watch him until then, whoever he is."

Milo frowned. Why were they so confused? A night's rest resulted in healing a hit point per level. Everyone knows that. Had they never slept? Were they Constructs—or even Undead? Milo reached for his Belt of Hidden Pouches, where he kept (among rather a lot of other, useful things) his spellbook. He needed an hour to prepare new spells (which he doubted he'd get, but it was worth trying.)

His Belt was gone.

Milo sat straight upright and checked his other pockets. Nothing. He broke out into a cold sweat. Without his spellbook, he couldn't memorize spells. If he couldn't memorize spells, he had a mere four 0th-level spells and then _nothing_. He was a Commoner for the rest of time, or at least until he could make a new one.

Almost as importantly, Mordy was still in the belt. Milo concentrated on the empathic bond, to see if Mordy was all right. _Hunger, Fear, Confusion_.

Milo licked his lips nervously. He'd just begun searching for something he could use as an improvised club (_not_ his preferred way of doing things) when the curtains were drawn aside.

"Who are you, where am I, and what have you done with my Magic Items?" Milo demanded, before they were even pulled all the way aside. In walked an odd duo. A pair of aging humans in robes (Venerable meant +3 Intelligence, Wisdom, and Charisma, so Milo made a mental note not to underestimate these two) who were obviously spellcasters of some sort. Great big white beard, half-moon glasses, wands… _What _is _it with the casters here and wands?_ Milo wondered.

"If you are talking about your broomstick, young man, its right beside the bed. And I would suggest you mind your manners," said the lady, who was sporting a rather severe bun of hair.

"Peace, Minerva," said the man in the purple robes. "He's clearly been through some sort of ordeal." The old man turned his pleasant, grandfatherly face to Milo. "Now, if you would be so good as to tell us who you are…?"

"I am Milo Amastacia-Liadon," said Milo proudly. For those of you keeping score at home, Milo's parents, being cosmopolitan humans, decided to give him a Halfling first name and both of their (Elven) last names.

"And I," said the grandfatherly man, "am Professor Albus Percival Dumbledore." He said it like Milo was supposed to know who he was. Maybe he really was famous; it was Zook who had all the Ranks in Knowledge (Nobility and Royalty) in their party. "This, of course, is Professor Minerva McGonagall. You are in Hogwarts, school of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"Wizardry? Oh, thank Boccob. You're Wizards, then?" Milo asked, feeling profoundly relieved.

Dumbledore looked slightly taken aback.

"Well, naturally we're wizards—Except for Minerva, of course, who is, in fact, a witch. You didn't take us for Muggles, did you?"

"What? Mug—look, I think we're getting slightly afield. Was I wearing a belt when I came in here?"

"I'd have to ask Madam Pomfrey to say for certain, but there is a belt on your bedstand," the old wizard said.

"Oh, thank the gods. Don't you know that it's terribly rude, not to mention a sign of hostile intent, to part a person from his Magic Items?" Milo grabbed the belt, which was covered in tiny pockets (and had many more besides, which were invisible) and quickly opened the snap on one of the hidden ones. Out crawled a very distressed-looking brown-and-white rat. "Not to mention a Wizard from his familiar."

"Best not let Poppy see that," Dumbledore suggested. "She would not, I believe, take kindly to seeing a rat in her hospital wing. Now, could you please tell me, of what school—if, indeed, any—are you a student?"

"Conjuration," Milo said proudly, "though I've always had something of a knack for Divinations as well."

"The School of Conjuration?" Albus frowned. "Unless I'm mistaken, they were shut down, oh, sometime in 1869, after the Spoons Incident." Nearby, McGonagall shuddered. "Would you take it amiss if I asked to see your wand?"

"My wand? I don't have one. Never saw the point, really, and even if I wanted one I couldn't afford it."

"No wand?" McGonagall gasped. But Dumbledore frowned.

"Now, I'm not one to pay close attention to the ins-and-outs and developments of sporting equipment, but how is it that you managed to come by what I believe to be a _most_ expensive racing broom if you can't afford even a simple wand?" Dumbledore asked.

"Oh, that thing? I took it off a cultist," Milo said blandly. "Seems pretty useless to me. If there's any magic in it, I have no idea how to make it work, and its shape is _hardly_ optimal for sweeping."

McGonagall's mind recoiled from the notion of using a Nimbus Two Thousand to clean a house. Thinking the very thought was unthinkably unthinkable.

"I think the more questions he answers, the less sense this makes," Dumbledore said. "Start with the cultists, then how you came to be in Hogsmeade so late at night, _then_ we'll discuss your school and the broomstick."

Milo shrugged.

"My party and I were storming the tower of the Most Maliciously Malevolent Magus, Thamior the Thaumaturge. After fighting our way past all the usual defenses—you know, skeletons, goblins," McGonagall choked slightly on hearing that, "that sort of thing, pretty routine, when we confronted the dark Wizard. Our Rogue crept into a flanking position while I distracted him with taunts, interrupting his monologue. The Cleric and I were about to unleash magical fury when suddenly, I was somewhere else entirely. The next thing I know, I hit a table in a room surrounded by cultists," Milo said. "They had dark robes and masks and everything; you should have _seen_ them. So, one of them started casting some spell, it went like, '_Avada Keda—_'" Milo was interrupted as McGonagall desperately clamped a hand over Milo's mouth.

"There's no need to worry, Minerva. He doesn't have a wand," Dumbledore said gently.

"Right. Er. Continue your story, then, Mister Amastacia-Liadon," said the old witch, slightly embarrassed. "But you must _never_ say those words again. They are the incantation for the worst of the Unforgivable Curses."

"Please call me Milo; elf names tend to be on the long side," Milo said.

"_Elf_ names?" McGonagall asked incredulously. "Albus, add that to the list of questions."

"Right, so I blinded the cultists with a _Glitterdust_, jumped out the window, provided false targets with illusions, summoned a pony, and rode off as fast as I could, but one of them chased me on that broomstick. One casting of _Grease_ on the stick and the cultist fell — but he teleported to safety somehow. Not before he killed my mount, though. So I started walking, and I think I'd just found some village or another when I passed out. Pretty lucky, really, all things considered."

"Albus," McGonagall said quietly. "These… cultists… he speaks of. They sound an awful lot like—"

"I'd noticed, Minerva. It appears they were not quite so disbanded as we had once believed." Dumbledore said ominously. Milo grinned. That sounded like a plot hook if he'd ever heard one.

"Now, young wizard, if you could tell me what school you attend so I can see you home safely?" Dumbledore asked.

"Oh, _that_ kind of school? Nah, never bothered," Milo said. "You gain experience _way_ faster hunting dark Wizards and goblins and things, let me tell you."

"No _school_?!" McGonagall gasped again, this time even more offended than when she'd heard of his lack of wand. "That's criminal! Your parents should be arrested!" The professor paused, looking concerned. "You—you do have parents, don't you, Mister Ama—er, Milo?" she asked gently.

"Parents? Most likely. They're…" he paused. Something was wrong. He reached out for his memories of his parents, but came back with nothing. He started to panic. "I don't understand. My parents, they're… they're… what's happening?"

"Are you… quite alright, young man?" McGonagall asked, her voice full of concern.

"I… this has never happened before," Milo confessed. His backstory generally wrote itself on an as-needed basis. "Obviously I had parents, but I… I just, I can't remember them."

"Oh, I am so, so sorry." McGonagall said seriously. It broke her heart how many orphans came through Hogwarts, especially in the time after the war.

"Minerva, if you would please come with me for a moment, I think we need to discuss this with the other heads of houses," Dumbledore said. "We'll be back shortly, Milo, in the mean time I'll let Poppy take care of you."

o—o—o—o

"I think it's obvious that we're dealing with a very _confused_ individual," Sprout said sadly after McGonagall had explained the situation. "He seems to have been orphaned at a young age and fended for himself since then, and is quite delusional."

"Sadly, I must agree," Dumbledore said. "I think we can assume that very little of his story is true, although he did describe the Death Eaters and the Killing Curse with an alarming level of accuracy. I think it likely, unfortunately, that his parents were killed by them at a young age."

"The broomstick," Flitwick said suddenly. "It's our only clue. We _know_ that the Nimbus is a brand-new model of Quidditch broom, so he must have come across it recently. Judging by his vagabond nature and lack of wand, he didn't obtain it through legitimate channels. If we can find any of the broomsticks reported stolen, it might be able to discern the veracity of his story."

"Clever as always, Filius," Dumbledore congratulated him.

"Headmaster, what if his story is true?" McGonagall asked. "There could very well be active Death Eaters out there, looking for revenge." _And_, she thought quietly, _the Malfoy Summer Manor is at about one night's walking distance from Hogsmeade…_ "Investigating the Nimbus will only draw attention to him."

"Well, it would appear we have but one option," Dumbledore said. "And the law is quite clear. Regardless of all else, the boy is clearly magical—otherwise, Hogsmeade's wards would have driven him off well before he made it within sight of the village. Term starts in only three days, and I believe this young man, both for his safety and for that of those around him, should be among the first years to be sorted."

"Headmaster, with _respect_," sneered Snape, who in fact meant none, "we can't just offer every street urchin and vagrant who wanders to our door a spot in this school. We're the _best_ school in magical Britain, not the _only_ one."

"I'm afraid I'll have to insist," Dumbledore said gently, but firmly. "Minerva, if you could take the young Mr. Amastacia-Liadon to Diagon Alley to get his school supplies and robes tomorrow, it would be much appreciated. Filius, would you please anonymously return the _Nimbus_ to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and quietly keep an eye on who picks it up? Pomona, would you be so good as to take over preparations for the sorting ceremony for us? As for myself, I will make inquiries at the Ministry of Magic, to see if any underage magic has been detected."

"And myself, headmaster?" asked Snape.

"Ah, Severus, I have a _special_ task for you. I'm afraid you'll have to visit certain old… acquaintances again."

"I understand," said Snape with a sigh. He'd hoped it wouldn't come to this.

"Well then, I believe we all have our tasks. We'd best get to them."

o—o—o—o

On the one hand, Milo was not particularly enthusiastic about attending school. But on the _other_ hand, it was pretty clear that this was what the plot demanded of him. Besides, this was his best shot at getting at those cultists, and everything about them said "we have loads and loads of Magic Items and gold." And it wasn't like he had anything else to do. Besides, he was only 300 XP away from a new level, and with it, one step closer to the untold arcane power of 3rd-level spells.

"I suppose I might be interested in attending your school, Deputy Headmistress," Milo said respectfully. Never hurts to flatter powerful NPCs on occasion.

"Excellent. We only have three days until term starts, so tomorrow we'll go out and purchase you your school supplies," McGonagall said.

"Oh, er. I haven't got any money, _per se_." Milo had spent the last of his loot buying that Belt of Hidden Pouches.

"None at all? Well, Hogwarts does have a small fund for… unfortunate… students such as yourself," McGonagall said thoughtfully, "but I'm afraid you'll likely have to make do with second- or third-hand materials."

"No complaints here. So what are we talking, like, quills and parchment and things?"

"That, of course, and also, oh where did I put that list…? Here we are. Wand, robes, pointed hat, dragonhide gloves," Milo choked slightly in surprise at that, "telescope, a cauldron, scales, and various text and spellbooks, wand..." McGonagall frowned as she read through the list. "It seems wand was listed twice. I'll be having a word with someone about that, I should think. It also says that you can have an owl, cat, or toad, though we generally make allowances for rats as well."

"A wand? What kind? Probably no higher than first level, but _seriously,_ that's on your mandatory list? And, wait… _spellbooks_?" Milo asked incredulously. "You're going to _buy me spellbooks_?" Milo felt faint. There had to be some kind of catch. Telescopes clocked in at 1,000 gp _alone_, and if they had the capability to slaughter enough _dragons_ to make gloves for the entire student body, the faculty here were _not_ to be trifled with. This little shopping list was _way_ beyond the average Wealth By Level of a 1st-Level Wizard, and Milo's rapid addition placed it at almost half of his current total value.

"I—I think I need to sit down for a moment," Milo said. "I appear to have been Dazed—or possibly even Stunned."

"Yes, well, I suppose it can be a bit overwhelming at first," McGonagall frowned at him. She couldn't imagine how someone could be so poor that a second-hand old textbook seemed extravagant. "In the meantime, I suppose, just stay here and focus on feeling better."

"Oh, I was going to ask about that. Don't you have any Clerics on staff?" Milo asked. His injuries weren't anything that a _Cure Light Wounds_ wouldn't solve; it really was faster than bed rest.

"Oh, er, no. Not many in the magical world feel a, um, religious calling of that nature." McGonagall said carefully. Most wizards and witches felt a little awkward around matters of religion, what with all the _suffer-not-the-witch-to-live_'s and inquisitions and all that.

"Hmm, that would explain that, then." Wizards heal injuries in a manner resembling how pigs fly—they generally tried to keep such a situation from occurring in the first place.

"In the mean time, I suggest you try to relax as much as possible, and I will be here early tomorrow morning to take you to London," McGonagall said before leaving.

Milo sat back, trying to contain his excitement for tomorrow. _This time in two days_, he thought, _I'm going to be absolutely rolling in new spells and items_… he was practically salivating at the thought. In fact, he realized, he _was_ salivating at the thought.


	2. Chapter 2: Diagon Alley

The next morning, it was a slightly apprehensive McGonagall who approached her newest student in the hospital wing. To the growing concern and, frankly, terror of their resident mediwitch, the last of Milo's injuries had vanished completely.

"So," he said brightly, "What's the plan, then? Travel by _horseback_, _Teleport_, _Wind Walk_, _Phantom Steed_, or something else?" The boy's rat was sitting on his shoulder, mimicking Milo's every hand gesture and expression in a most disconcerting way.

"We'll walk to the edge of Hogwarts grounds and Apparate there directly," she explained.

"Apparate, eh? What's that?" Milo asked. He was getting very concerned at the number of Knowledge (Arcana) checks he'd been failing recently. It was most unlike him.

"We will be transported directly to Diagon Alley in London," she explained. "From the point of view of those watching, we will appear to disappear."

"Oh, so we'll teleport?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

"Why can't we just do it from here?" Milo asked, gesturing around the hospital wing.

"You can't Apparate or Disapparate on the Hogwarts grounds," McGonagall explained.

Milo frowned.

"That really makes a lot of sense, actually. I can see how dark wizards teleporting—sorry, '_Apparating_—'" he said with finger-quotes "—into your school would be a problem. Well, let's be off, then." Milo had woken up an hour early to memorize his spells for the day and as a result felt like he was practically buzzing with magic.

The castle, Milo decided, was pretty cool. There were moving staircases and talking portraits (he wasn't sure how they pulled that off, _Animate Object _was a Divine spell after all), suits of armour (the value of that many suits of full plate set Milo salivating again. He wondered if they'd notice if a few went "missing"), and the castle was, on the whole, apparently larger on the inside than the outside (what was it, an entire _Castle__ of Holding_? The cost of something like that would be astronomical, not to mention that it would drain enough XP to de-level an epic Wizard), they even had—

"Holycrapghost! _Glitterdust_!" Milo shouted, reaching for the only spell he thought would affect it.

"_Mister Amastacia-Liadon!_" Professor McGonagall barked, "At Hogwarts, we do _not _blind history teachers! I'm dreadfully sorry, Professor Binns."

"He…he… he's a _teacher_?" Milo asked, stunned. "Cool! So sorry about that, Professors. I was startled."

"No matter, no matter," Binns said distractedly, floating past them with a trail of golden dust falling off of him in his wake.

"It's considered impolite to draw attention to Professor Binns'… condition," McGonagall said quietly. She sighed. Milo had somehow, apparently, achieved an unusually high degree of control over his accidental magic (or so she thought). Hopefully, that should stop once they got him a proper wand and training.

As they walked out of the castle's huge front gates, Milo soaked in the castle's grounds. There was an evil forest. An animated tree (a disguised Treant, possibly?). A lake with mermaids.

"This place is _awesome_," he said. The amount of XP he could get just from random encounters _in the school grounds_ _alone_… it suddenly made sense to him how such a school could be an effective way to gain power. This place was clearly, really, incredibly, obviously, _brilliantly_ dangerous. With all the adventure and monster fighting that must be happening between classes, not to mention the magical brawls that naturally occur when you give an eleven-year-old untold arcane power in a practically unsupervised environment (it would take a staff of thousands to keep an eye on all of Hogwarts at once), these kids would be leveling up like _crazy_.

Milo grinned happily, thinking about all the XP he was about to gain.

McGonagall smiled, thinking about how happy Milo looked now that he had found a home.

"This should be far enough," McGonagall said. "Hold on closely, a Side-Along Apparition can be somewhat startling at first."

As it turned out, that was putting it rather lightly. It felt, roughly, like someone had buffed his Escape Artist bonus to +70 and forced him to crawl through a lengthy stretch of lead pipe, backwards.

"I think I failed a Fortitude save," Milo said somewhat queasily.

He looked around to find himself in a dark, somewhat shabby tavern. He felt, like all adventurers the world over (despite being under-age in all civilized nations) simultaneously at home and somewhat homesick. Everyone they passed gave McGonagall a respectful nod. Milo hadn't realized she was a retired adventurer, but it made sense. Who better to teach at a school for wizards?

"Good Lord," said the barman, peering at Milo. "Is this—can this be—"

"Tom, I thought I asked you to stop doing that to every student who passes through here?" McGonagall said sharply.

"Sorry, Professor," the barman mumbled, somewhat sheepishly.

"I remember you when you were _this_ tall," she said, gesturing to about her waist. "A wide-eyed, innocent young Hufflepuff, not that that's anything to be ashamed of, in my Transfiguration class," (_a-ha_, thought Milo. _She's a Transmuter; no wonder everyone respects her_) "such _promise_. Such _potential_." She shook her head slowly. "And what do you do with it? Prank every little boy who comes your way into thinking they're secretly the Boy-Who-Lived. Honestly, I don't know _how_ you sleep at night."

"Sorry, Professor."

"It's a good thing for Hufflepuff House that you've already graduated, _young man_," (Milo noted that Tom already had graying hair. _Just how old _is_ McGonagall?_) "or your antics would seriously handicap the students of that poor House (bless their little, hardworking, earnest hearts) in their chances at winning the Cup. If I ever hear of you pulling this on the _actual_ Harry Potter, why… Well, I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise by saying what I'll do." She led Milo off, making soft _tut-tut_ sounds to herself. The barman, Milo noted, looked somewhat sick. Milo was impressed. He'd never met a Wizard (or witch, as the people here seemed to think that _witch_ was the feminine form of Wizard, for some reason) who put cross-class ranks into Intimidate before.

"Merlin!" she said as they left the pub. "I've wanted to do that for _years_." She reached out and tapped a seemingly-innocuous brick wall, and a hole appeared in the wall which rapidly grew larger. In a manner of seconds, they were standing before an archway into a bustling alley.

"Cool, if somewhat showy," Milo said, gesturing to the wall. "Wouldn't keep anyone out who held the mysterious and cosmic power of a heavy sledge, though."

McGonagall was amazed by his blasé reaction. Milo seemed to be astonished by the most innocuous things, and completely shrugged off what most unfamiliar with the wizarding world practically fainted at. After the boy's reaction when they asked him about his parents, however, McGonagall decided to keep questions about his past to a minimum.

"Ah, it's just like home," he said as they walked past rows of magical shops. At that point, she _had_ to ask.

"Where, exactly, _was_ home for you?" McGonagall asked him.

"Myra, capital of the great Azel Empire!" he said proudly. "City of Light! City of _Magic_!" It was the city's motto, and the guards touted it endlessly. It was legally required to say it with exclamation marks and added emphasis on 'magic.' "A city where every tavern has an outlandishly-dressed man with a strange accent making mysterious requests, where the aging emperor's wicked, goatee-sporting advisor's power grows steadily every day, where the civic authorities are helplessly inept at dealing with local bandit problems yet still capable of preventing high-level Adventurers from robbing Magic Item stores at night, and where quest opportunities appear around every corner."

McGonagall looked at him somewhat askance. She was starting to grow concerned that the boy had been hit with a powerful _Confundus_ charm at some point, and resolved to keep an eye out for any Missing Persons posters.

"I suppose," she said, "that we'll start with your uniform, then get your books, then drop by Ollivanders for your wand, leaving the cauldron for last."

"Works for me," he said as she steered him towards _Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions_. He was somewhat disappointed to find that the uniforms were, in fact, merely mundane black robes. After everything else, he'd half-hoped that they were some kind of magical stat-boosting outfit.

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling NPC dressed all in mauve. Milo's brain barely registered her existence.

"Another for Hogwarts?" she asked McGonagall. "Isn't he a little late? Most of the students came through here a month ago."

"He's…something of a special case, Madam. I'm afraid this is coming out of our, erm _special_ fund," McGonagall said. The technical term was 'The Destitute Orphan Fund,' but she decided to avoid the term in front of the poor boy. "So we can't, unfortunately, stretch for a custom job."

"Ah," she said sadly. "But, no matter! I have just the thing! Some unfitted display models, which I was just putting into storage, now that the back-to-school-rush is over." She ruffled through a few boxes before finding what she was looking for. "Here you are! A very nearly perfect fit!"

Madam Malkin's idea of a 'very nearly' was, Milo thought, a little far from the mark. Despite this, he shrugged and accepted the much-too-large robes happily. His perfectly serviceable explorer's outfit was getting somewhat worn, anyways. Probably something to do with all the pointy sticks and serrated teeth he dealt with on a regular basis. Besides, it wasn't like he was paying for them, or that too-big robes gave him a circumstance penalty to anything.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said respectfully. "I can hardly even remember the last time I got new clothes."

McGonagall's heart broke very slightly when she saw how the boy's face lit up at receiving hand-me-down robes. She passed the witch a few bronze knuts from her small supply before they headed out for books.

They left the bookstore with a small pile of very, very well-used (the clerk had described them as 'well-loved') books. Milo could hardly keep his hands off of them — especially _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_. He figured Grade 1 was probably analogous to Level 1, in which case there was a book of first-level spells practically within his reach — nothing to be sneezed at. He resolved, however, to read it later and, in the meantime, pocketed it in his extradimensional Belt. He was a little apprehensive about _Magical Drafts and Potions_, however. There was no place for Item Creation in his build, especially not for anything as suboptimal as Brew Potion.

"Er, Professor," he asked cautiously. "Do I really have to take potions class?"

"Yes, it's mandatory until fifth year, and extremely practical, besides."

"It's just that I'm not sure I have enough experience for potions," he said. Making magic items permanently drained Experience Points, so he'd always stayed away from it.

"Oh, don't worry, Professor Snape teaches from a beginner level," she said reassuringly. "No experience is necessary."

"Huh. How did you manage that? In any case, I don't have the proper feat for it," he explained.

"It appears you have two solid ones, as does nearly every student attending our school," McGonagall said. "Though we would make arrangements for the handicapped, of course."

"Like those who take Run and Endurance?" Milo laughed. "'Handicapped' is a good word for them. Also, I realize Eschew Materials is sub-optimal, but it really is very convenient. So I would say that I have _three_ solid feats, including Improved Initiative and Spell Focus (Conjuration). But to each his own. I don't have any to spare for Brew Potion, however."

"Oh, you don't have to worry about _that_," McGonagall said. "None of Snape's students have lost feet—or hands for that matter—in _years_."

Milo laughed at what he thought was a pun.

"Well, as long as I don't have to worry about the feat and experience, I'm in. Potions could be a lot of fun, actually." Never hurts to show a little enthusiasm around educators.

"I'm glad you feel that way," she said. Not a lot of students looked _forward_ to spending time in the dungeon with Severus.

They then entered Ollivanders. Milo had never understood how the sale of magical items in large-scale could be economically viable. The experience cost alone would reduce any mighty spellcaster to a novice in a few years. Still, he was glad _someone_ was willing to do it, or he wouldn't have anywhere to spend his gold.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice, presumably Ollivander. "Ah, Professor McGonagall. Nine-and-a-half inches, made of fir. Stiff, with a dragon heartstring core. Excellent for advanced Transfigurations. Made by my father... of course."

_Again with the dragons_, Milo thought, feeling slightly intimidated. _What, do they have a farm of them somewhere?_

"Hm. Well, yes. We're here to get a, er, preferably discount wand for our latest student here," she said. Ollivander peered closely at Milo, who jumped backwards slightly. Their noses had practically touched, and Milo was _sure_ he hadn't seen him move…

"Er, before we, uh, um, start choosing one," Milo stammered awkwardly. "There's something I've been, ah, meaning to ask of you, Mr. Ollivander."

"Yes?" he said softly. _Gods, but this guy is weird_.

"Your store name—I mean, _Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 BC_—well, it's just that, er…"

"Yes?"

"Shouldn't—shouldn't _Ollivanders_ have an apostrophe in it?" Milo said, and instantly regretted it.

Mr. Ollivander chuckled, slowly and irregularly. It was a disconcertingly unnatural sound.

"Not if it's plural," he said.

Milo swallowed nervously. _Plural?_

"Right, well," McGonagall, fortunately, interrupted their weird conversation. "While you find Milo here a wand, I'll go and fetch him his potions supplies."

"But of course. Right this way, Mr. Amastacia-Liadon." He led Milo through a row dusty aisles, each packed with small boxes. "Which is your wand arm?"

"My right," Milo said. Ollivander passed Milo a series of wands, each with more improbable ingredients than the last. Unicorn hair? Phoenix tail feathers? Dragon heartstring? Yeti fur? There were even some from creatures he'd never heard of, like Thestral tail. He waved them each about randomly in turn, with no effect.

"Look, I'm pretty sure this isn't how wands are supposed to work," he said to Ollivander, who was searching through a storeroom in the back. "I can't just _wave _them. I have to _activate _them. Very different thing."

"Oh? Young wizard, my family has been making wands since they were _invented_," said Ollivander, who had somehow gotten behind Milo. _Right_ behind him.

"Gah!" he said, backing up into an aisle of wands, causing several to fall to the ground.

"I think we know a thing or two about how they are _supposed to work_," he said.

"Right, of course, sorry." Milo said, eager to do anything to get out of here. "So, what's _supposed_ to happen when I wave my this stick around, assuming it's the, ah, _right_ wand for me?"

"It varies. Sparks. Fire. Light. Once even a spurt of blood, cat's blood, I would say, judging by the distinct flavour."

"Oh, my gods." Milo had never been so scared in his life. "_Detect Magic_," he murmured quietly. Just like the broomstick earlier, there was no response. Either the wands were somehow hiding their magical auras, which was possible, or McGonagall had left him alone with a madman who could recognize the blood of kittens by taste and butchered dragons for their heartstrings. Maybe this was some sort of test, to see if he was worthy of their school? Milo frowned. Well, if it was a magical response Ollivander wanted, he'd bloody well get one.

Ollivander passed Milo another allegedly 'magic' wand, and as soon as Milo's hand touched it, he whispered "_Silent Image_." A swarm of illusory bats flew out of the wand, before bursting into varicoloured flames. As the flames began to disappear, the bat's skeletons continued flying, circling the interior of the store seven times each before assembling themselves into a floating, bony pentagram just below the ceiling. Upside-down, dark blue flames lit, one by one, at the vertices of the five-pointed star, and drops of water began to fall _upwards_ from the floor to the ceiling. For added effect, hundreds of wholly imaginary insects crawled up the walls and cast themselves into the flames. Milo was sweating slightly, concentrating on the illusion, as he decided to go for the finish. The ceiling appeared to open up into a gateway to some unimaginable dimension in the dead-centre of the pentagram. The bony bats, still hovering in their star-pattern, flew as one into the gateway and vanished. Milo put out the fires and closed the imaginary portal, dispelling the illusion. Normally, the fact that a _Silent Image_ can't create any noise was a handicap, but this time the dead silence actually added to the overall creepiness. All in all, Milo was rather proud of himself.

"My, my, my. That was… certainly something," Ollivander said softly in Milo's ear, somehow having managed to get behind him again. "It would appear that we have found the wand for you, my young wizard."

Milo almost hated to ask, but couldn't resist.

"What kind is it, exactly?"

"Thirteen inches, chestnut wood, dragon heartstring core. Good for… curses, Mr. Amastacia-Liadon."

"G-good length. Thirteen, that is. I… I'll just be leaving now."

Milo had already left the store before realizing that he'd _never told the wizard his name_.

"Oh, my gods," he whimpered. Mordy was quivering in fear, deep in the extradimensional reaches of Milo's _Belt of Hidden Pouches__._

o—o—o—o

McGonagall had decided that, in order to appear normal, Milo would stay at Hogwarts until the day of the sorting ceremony, and then they'd Apparate back to London and he'd take the Hogwarts Express with the other students. There was one part of this plan that confused Milo, however.

"Professor, what's a train?" Milo asked curiously.

"You've never heard of a _train_?" she asked incredulously. "It's a, well, it's a big metal contraption all with wheels and things. It travels along rails at high speeds."

"I _hate_ railroad plots," Milo grumbled as McGonagall shook her head in amazement. How could someone have heard of a railroad, but not a train?

Milo spent the next day uneventfully wandering the halls of Hogwarts, engaging in conversation with the paintings. He used a little Craft (Sewing) to do the hems of his robes, so he could walk without them dragging along the ground quite so much. Later, maybe, he could tailor them properly. He was forced to admit that he didn't strike a very impressive image, with his sleeves rolled up four times and _still_ hanging past his hands.

The next morning, McGonagall Side-Along Apparated him to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

"What _is_ that?" he asked, shocked. He was pointing past the bustling students to the train itself.

"That's the Hogwarts Express," McGonagall explained. "The train."

"H-How does it move? Where are the horses?"

"There aren't any horses, it moves itself."

"What, by magic?"

"A little magic, but mainly Muggle know-how," McGonagall shrugged. "They can be quite ingenious at times."

Milo was floored. He couldn't believe that something so _huge_ could be moved without… without anything, it sounded like.

"What's a Muggle?" he asked reverently. "They must be mighty creatures indeed."

"What, Muggles?" McGonagall exclaimed, laughing. "No, they're just like you or me, only without magic." _Well, like me, anyway_, McGonagall thought. _We're not quite sure what _you_ are_.

"I, um, I suppose I'll get on board the horseless iron wagon now, shall I?" Milo asked nervously.

"Go on ahead, dear. I'll meet you at the castle," McGonagall said and teleported away. Disapparated. Whatever.

Somewhat apprehensively, Milo climbed one of the stairs. He'd arrived early, so most of the carriages were empty. Choosing a compartment at random, he sat down forcibly in one of the seats. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that there was no possible way to move this much iron all at once without either magic or a whole _herd_ of horses. The crew of this vessel would be pretty embarrassed when they tried to get it moving.

After a few minutes, a round-faced boy popped his head through the door.

"Um, I don't suppose you've seen a toad anywhere?" he asked.

"Hmm. No, I can't say that I have, but my Spot score is lousy," Milo responded.

"Oh," the boy said, crestfallen. Milo began to feel sorry for him.

"Here, let me try something," he said. "_Spontaneous Search_," he cast spontaneously, using his Spontaneous Divination ability to replace _Mirror Image_. Spontaneously. Milo began to wonder if somebody was getting paid a silver piece every time he thought 'Spontaneous.' Milo became instantly aware of everything within twenty feet of him as if he'd carefully searched the contents of the carriage by hand. "He's three doors down, under the North-facing bench," Milo said.

"Blimey, that was impressive," the boy said. "I haven't been able to pull off even the simplest of charms, yet. I'm Neville, by the way."

"Milo. And don't worry, Neville. Everyone was first level once in their lives."

"Err, thanks, I think," Neville said as he went off to grab his toad. Solid choice for familiar, toads. Mordy, still sitting on his shoulder, playfully nipped him on the ear.

"Though I prefer rats, of course," he said aloud.

"Prefer rats to what?" asked a black-haired boy.

"Toads," Milo said, somewhat embarrassed. "Mordenkainen was feeling insecure."

"Oh," said the boy. "Mordenkainen… is that your pet's name?"

"Familiar. Mordenkainen doesn't take kindly to being called a pet, he thinks its de-humanizing."

"Oh. Er, sorry, Mordenkainen."

"His friends call him Mordy."

"His… his friends? Of course they do, don't they? You know, I'm starting to think that wizards are just weird for the sake of weird. Do you mind if I sit down? The other compartments are full," the boy asked.

"Sure. I'm Milo, by the way."

"Harry," the boy said, sitting down across from him. There was something unusual about him, but Milo couldn't place his finger on it. It wasn't the tussled hair, or the broken glasses, or even the lightning-bolt scar. It was… everything taken together. Like there was just _more_ to him than the others Milo had met in this world.

"Oh my gods!" Milo shouted, delighted. "You're— "

"You've heard, too?" Harry said darkly. "I was hoping to meet _somebody_ who didn't realize it immediately. The scar gave it away didn't it?"

"I'm _so_ pleased to meet you!" Milo said.

"Yes, yes, can we please skip past this part?"

"Not much of a roleplayer, eh? Straight to the goblin-killing? I _knew_ it! You're a PC!"

"Wait, what?" Harry asked. "What's a Peasea? Is that another weird wizarding word, like Muggle?"

"New to this? Ah, I remember my first adventure—I was nearly slain by a kobold. _Very_ embarrassing, that. Ah, those were the days," Milo said dreamily. "No, PC is nothing like Muggle. It means Player Character. Basically, the universe will go out of its way to cast you into dangerous situations—but also makes sure, to a certain extent, that you get out of them as well. Usually. In short, if this were a book, you'd be the main character."

"I think you're mistaking me for somebody else; I'm not really much of anything," Harry said despondently.

"Are you _kidding_? You've got a scar shaped like a _lightning bolt_! Okay, stop me if I'm wrong: you've had a dark and troubled past." Harry nodded glumly. "Events seem to be moving so quickly that you can barely keep up with all of the foreshadowing and plots."

"Well, things have been happening pretty quickly," Harry confessed. "Just last month I found that, when I was a baby, an evil wizard tried to kill me but was somehow unable to, and died mysteriously because of it. Now, strange people are coming up to me to thank me for something I don't even _remember_."

"Ha ha! I knew it. Make sure to stay on your toes these next few days. The early days are key—everything anyone says is going to be a clue to events that will come up later. In fact, make a list. Here," Milo said, passing Harry a sheet of parchment and a quill from his belt. "write down everyone you've met who could be described with more than two adjectives, everything anyone said in a quiet voice that was cut off before they could finish, and every _named_ character you've been introduced to, okay? It will be relevant. There may be an exam on it later, and it will probably be pass-or-die. Have you started gathering your party together yet?"

"My—my party?" Harry asked, while he started writing down a list of names.

"Oh, you know, a quirky bunch of allies. Friends to help you through dangerous times and adventures, that kind of thing."

"I—I can't say that I have."

"Okay. The next two to three people you meet will stick with you for life—unless they're future recurring villains, of course."

The door to the compartment slid open, and a lanky (one), red-headed (two) boy came in.

"Anyone sitting here?" he asked, pointing to the seat next to Milo. "Everywhere else is full."

The boy had a black mark on his nose (three! We have a winner) and seemed to be glancing nervously at Harry.

"Hey, Ron," Harry said.

A pair of identical (one), freckled (two), equally red-headed (three!) twins walked to the door.

"Listen," one of them said to Ron, "we're going to the middle of the train – Lee Jordan's got a giant tarantula down there."

"Right," mumbled Ron.

"Harry," said the other twin, "did we introduce ourselves? Fred and George Weasley. And this is Ron, our brother. See you later, then."

"Bye," said Harry and Ron. The twins slid the compartment door shut behind them.

"Are you really Harry Potter?" Ron blurted out.

Harry nodded. This was getting to be almost too much for Milo. Finally, the solo adventure was over, and there was someone else to soak up damage.

Harry pulled back a fringe of hair to show his lightning-bolt scar more clearly.

"So, that's where You-Know-Who...?"

"I, um, I do _not_ know who," Milo said.

"Oh, blimey! You don't?" Ron paused. "I don't think we've met—I'm Ron, Ron Weasley."

"Milo Amastacia-Liadon, but _please_ just call me Milo. Anyways, what's with this You-Know-Who character?"

"He was this dark, evil wizard who went on an unstoppable rampage of death and destruction. Well, that is until Harry Potter—I still can't believe you're actually _him_—proved to be too much for him and he died."

"What, just like that?" Milo asked.

"I wouldn't say it was 'just like that,'" Harry said. "He—he killed my parents."

"But he's gone, though," Ron said. "And good riddance, too."

"No, he's not," Milo sighed. "But you probably won't believe me. See, in my experience, when a Dark Wizard dies under mysterious causes, he'll come back ten to fifteen years later more powerful than before. And that's assuming he's _not_ a lich."

"You talk a lot of nonsense, you know that?" Ron said. "Cool rat, though."

"Thanks," Milo shrugged. "His name's Mordy."

"Neat. I've got one too, he used to be my brother's." Ron pulled out a fat, grey rat, who appeared to be quite dead.

"Uh, I think what you have there is an ex-rat, actually," Milo said.

"Nah, he's alive. He's just useless. His name is Scabbers."

"That seems oddly appropriate," Milo said. "But, enough character development. Tell me more about this Dark Wizard."

"There's not that much more to it," Ron frowned. "What did you want to know?"

"Well, for starters, there's his name?" Milo said. "Because, really, I _don't_ know who."

"Uh, they also call him He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but I always thought that was a bit of a mouthful," the redhead said, somewhat uncomfortably.

"Voldemort," said Harry, who had been silent. "He's called the Dark Lord Voldemort."

Ron gasped.

"What?" Harry asked.

"_You said You-Know-Who's name!_" said Ron, sounding both shocked and impressed. Milo tuned out as they continued chatting and comparing back stories and such. Ron came from a poor family with lots of kids, Harry was an orphan raised by Muggles, yadda yadda. Milo looked out the window for the first time since he'd seen Neville.

"_Sweet, merciful, Pelor! We're moving!"_ Milo shrieked. "How? What? How? Why? _How?_ When?"

Harry and Ron glanced at each other.

"Uh, you alright mate?" Harry asked.

"I—I've never been on a train before," Milo confessed. "I can't believe how fast we're moving."

"What? Who never heard of a _train_? Everybody knows about trains," Ron said. "They're just big metal things that move on rails, nothing to them."

"But it's moving so _fast,_" Milo said in awe.

Shortly later, there was a loud clattering sound by the compartment door, and a trolley selling candy came by. Milo and Ron passed, not having any money to speak of, but Harry bought just about the entire cart. Harry shared his candy with them all (Neutral Good, eh? Milo could live with that) which seemed to be a big moment in his life for some reason. Milo never really paid much attention to food in the past; he'd spent his first 350 gp on _Everlasting Rations_ and had more or less subsided off of that ever since. The savings over the years were astronomical. Milo started listening again when Harry opened his Chocolate Frog. In the package was a card containing a picture of Albus Dumbledore.

"Oh, hey, that guy with the beard," Milo said.

"You know him?" Harry asked.

"Oh course he does, _everyone'_s heard of Dumbledore," said Ron.

Harry turned the card over and read the back. Then he passed it to Milo, who read:

_Albus Dumbledore, currently Headmaster of Hogwarts._  
_considered by many the greatest wizard of modern_  
_times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his_  
_defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945,_  
_for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's_  
_blood and for his work on alchemy with his partner,_  
_Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys_  
_chamber music and tenpin bowling. _

Milo passed the card back.

"Dumbledore, the dark wizard Grindelwald, Nicolas Flamel, and the twelve uses of dragon's blood," Milo said, counting each on his finger. "Write all those down, they'll be important later."

"Important?" Ron asked. "Important for what?"

"For the adventure, obviously," Milo said.

"Um. Okay, pretend for one moment that we're all not as crazy as you," Ron said, "and elaborate?"

"Oh, another newbie." Milo said, briefly explaining the concept of a PC to the bewildered Ron.

As Ron was about to open his mouth to object, the compartment door slid open again, and Neville's round face appeared again.

"Oh, hey Neville," Milo said. "Neville, this is Harry and Ron."

"Hey, pleased to meet you. Um, so I lost my toad again, I was wondering if you could cast that spell again?" Neville asked.

"Sure," Milo said, but was getting concerned that he'd run out of magic before even reaching Hogwarts. "_Spontaneous Search,_" he cast, this time giving up _Mount _for the day.

"Your toad's two compartments towards the rear of the cart, nobody ever taught Ron how to fold his clothes properly, and Scabbers is eating Harry's last Chocolate Frog," Milo said, as knowledge of the contents of the area flooded into his mind rapidly. It was dizzying, and he knew, instantly, far more about the contents of twenty-six students' luggage than he'd ever wanted to.

"Thanks!" Neville said, and scampered off.

"That was a mean trick," Ron accused. "Fooling Neville like that."

"What are you talking about? I helped him," Milo said.

"_Please_. You didn't even use your wand," he said.

"What, this old piece of junk?" Milo asked, pulling out the stick that demon of a man had sold him. Ron blushed slightly and mumbled something about his wand.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"I was just saying, I wish that I was rich enough to afford a brand-new wand and still consider it a piece of junk," Ron muttered angrily.

"Oh, I didn't buy it. Professor McGonagall bought it for me with Hogwarts' Destitute Orphan Fund."

"Oh. Sorry." Ron said, then went silent.

"You, too?" Harry asked.

"Uh, see, the thing about my parents is that… I don't think I'm an orphan. I just can't remember them." Milo said.

"That's terrible!" Harry said. "I'll help you find them, okay?"

"Oh, thanks, but don't worry. It's not important."

"Not _important_?" Ron asked, surprised. "How could parents possibly be unimportant?"

"Well, they just… I… my back story isn't _working_. I think it's because I'm cut off from my world," Milo said. Harry and Ron looked at him like he'd said he'd just gotten engaged to a goblin. He briefly explained what happened with the cultists.

"That's… you're a nutter, mate." Ron said.

"Says the person who thinks you need a wand to be a Wizard," Milo shot back. Mordy folded his arms and shook his little rat head at Ron and Scabbers, emphasizing his point.

"Whatever. Want to trade rats?" Ron asked hopefully.

"Not on your life, Weasley."

"Can you really do magic without a wand?" Harry asked. "I don't seem to know anything about anything, but I was led to believe that was practically impossible."

"Oh, sure. Here, take this," he said, passing his wand to Harry. He shook his hands free of his sleeves, to show he didn't have anything up them. "Okay, no wand, right? _Dancing Lights_."

Four glowing white lights appeared in front of his hands, then flew around the compartment briefly, as the compartment door slid open _again_.

"Neville said, and of course I didn't believe him, that someone in this compartment could perform magic without a wand," a girl said, then gasped as she saw the lights. She had a bossy sort of voice (one), lots of bushy brown hair (two)…

"And the buck teeth make a winner!" Milo shouted happily and dismissed the spell. "Come in! Who are you?"

"Hasn't anyone ever _told_ you it's rude to comment on other people's appearance?" she asked angrily.

"What? Oh, I'm sorry. Where I'm from it's actually a compliment," he said.

"What, really?" she asked disbelievingly.

"Yeah. Dumping Charisma is a sign of great wisdom and foresight." Milo blushed slightly. He wasn't sure what he'd been thinking, all those years ago, when he'd decided his Charisma should be two points higher than his Constitution. Stupid, stupid, stupid, and now he was stuck with it.

The girl frowned, trying to figure out if she'd been insulted or not.

"Well, I'm Hermione Granger. I've tried a few simple spells for practice and it's all worked for me, but never without my wand. How did you do that?" she asked, sitting down next to Harry. Milo made frantic gestures to Harry to write her name down on the growing list.

"Well, I'm a Wizard, right? So I do what Wizards normally do. I learned the spell, wrote it down in my spellbook, and every morning I memorize it on an as-needed basis. Then I can cast it later, once."

"That… that doesn't sound like magic at all," Hermione said slowly. "At least, not like any magic I've read about. And believe me, I've read a lot."

"What, seriously?" Milo asked. "How do you do it, then?"

"Well, I learn the spell by reading how it's done. Then, after I practice enough to get the gestures and incantation just right, I just have to do it again and the spell gets cast."

"Huh," Milo said. "How many times can you do that? In a given day, I mean?"

"I've never noticed a limit," Hermione said. "I mean, it can be a little exhausting, depending on the spell. But there's no hard cap."

"What, seriously?" Milo asked again. "Well, that's hardly fair. How many spells can you learn?" They were starting to sound like Warlocks, who could cast an infinite number of spells per day but only learned a few different ones to choose from.

"Well, I can cast three, but nothing very impressive so far. But learning them isn't all that hard," she said.

"_Not that hard_, she says," Ron muttered. "Don't listen to her, mate; it's pretty hard."

Harry just shrugged.

"I mean, is there no _limit_?" Milo asked. "Or, if you worked hard enough and practiced enough, could you just… keep learning them?"

"Yes, that's right. With enough hard work and practice, there's no upper limits beyond the confines of normal human memory," Hermione said, as if reciting the line from memory. "I'll bet Dumbledore knows thousands of spells."

"That's so…so…so… _broken_!" Milo exclaimed. "That's so unfair! I can get eleven a day, and almost half of those are cantrips! And I've been doing this a lot longer than you!"

"What, you've already been using magic?" Ron asked. "That's illegal, that is."

"Psh, who's to stop me? Besides, I haven't set foot in this country till three days ago. I wasn't even on this _plane _before that."

"The word's _train_, mate," Harry said. "Planes fly up in the sky, though most wizards don't know much about them from what I've heard. It's an easy enough mistake to make, don't feel bad."

"No, a plane is a universe into its own, with its own rules and laws governing it," Milo said. He should know, had maximum ranks in Knowledge (the Planes), after all.

"Excuse me, to head off this discussion before it becomes any more unbearable," Hermione interrupted, "it's clear we're operating under different meanings of the same word. Harry is talking about an _airplane_, a Muggle form of transportation. Milo is talking about a _plane of existence_, a totally different concept with no known grounding in reality, forcing me to conclude that he is, in fact, quite insane."

"Gee, thanks," Milo muttered. He was about to come up with a snappy retort when the door slid open _yet again_.

"I'm sorry, I can't help you find your toad again today," Milo said irritably. While not strictly speaking true, any more and he'd be cutting into his emergency first-level spells. Milo never went anywhere without _Feather Fall_ and _Grease_.

Unfortunately, it was not the good-natured Longbottom boy standing in the doorway. A pale (one) blond (two) boy entered imperiously (and three! We have a recurring character). After a brief moment of shock upon hearing Milo's words, he apparently decided to completely ignore the young Wizard's existence.

"Is it true?" the boy asked. "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter is in this compartment. So it's you, is it?"

"Yes," said Harry. Flanking the sneering boy were a pair of mooks.

"Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle," the boy said, although Milo wasn't sure why he bothered. Everything about them said mute NPC. "and my name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

Ron sniggered slightly.

"Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are—" Draco paused, staring at Milo. The blood drained from his face, making him look, if it were possible, even paler.

"_You! _I would have thought you'd be in hiding down the deepest, darkest hole you could find, after showing your face at my father's mansion. Well, _Potter_, I can see you've chosen your side already—a Weasley_, _a _mudblood_, and a dead man. I'd be careful, if I were you, or you might just wind up going the way of your parents." With that, Malfoy spun about on his heel and started to leave. Harry and Ron stood up, their faces livid. Hermione had tears in her eyes—apparently mudblood was some kind of insult. Maybe her ancestors were part dwarf, or something?

"Either of you want to get him, or shall I?" Milo asked.

Ron smirked slightly, but his fists were still held, his knuckles turning white. "Be my guest," he said through clenched teeth.

"_Grease_," Milo muttered. The ground underneath Malfoy and his mooks became all-but frictionless. The results were fairly predictable, especially given that they were on a moving train.

"You! You! When Father hears about this," Malfoy said, trying (and failing, quite hilariously, in fact) "he'll, he'll—gah!" the Hogwarts Express lurched around a corner, sending causing Crabbe to fall onto Malfoy again. Unfortunately, the spell only lasted for eighteen seconds. "You haven't seen the last of me!" Draco shouted, then stormed off, furiously.

"Mate, forget everything I said about you being crazy. You are alright in my books," Ron said.

"Same goes for me," said Harry. "Let's all hope for Gryffindor together. Are you alright, Hermione?" Harry asked the crying girl.

"F-fine. I'm fine," she said.

"What was that he called you, anyway?" Harry asked, confused.

"Mudblood," Ron said. "It's a dire insult. It means someone whose parents weren't wizards. We'll get him back for that one."

"I rather think we did already get him back," Milo said smugly.

"Nah, that was just _interest_. We'll come and collect in full one day."

"Hermione, I wouldn't worry about it," Harry said. "Nobody here cares whether or not your parents were Muggles."

"Easy for you to say!" she shot back. "You're all, all purebloods!"

"Hey, take it back!" Milo said. "There's not a _drop_ of magical blood in my family."

They all paused for a beat or three.

"And—you're proud of that?" Ron asked.

"Nine Hells, yeah. It means I'm a _Wizard_. I had to scrounge and work and_ fight_ tooth and nail for _my_ magic. What do you take me for, a Sorcerer?" he asked. Hermione looked somewhat mollified (though confused), and gave him a brief, thankful look.

"What was that all about, anyway?" Hermione asked, her voice steady but her eyes still rimmed with red.

"Oh, he's some git I met at Madam Malkins," Harry explained.

"He comes from a big, rich family," Ron added. "They were among You-Know-Who's first supporters, and also the first to turn their backs on him—or so they say—after he fell. Malfoy's dad claims he was being controlled by magic, but _my_ dad thinks he's full of it."

"Hmm," Hermione said. "Maybe you shouldn't have humiliated him like that. We could come to regret this, if his family's as powerful as all that."

Milo just grinned. Three CR ones defeated, split three ways, was 300 XP each. He lay back as the train reached its destination, enjoying his +1 Intelligence, +2 hp, +6 skill ranks, +1 1st level spell slot, +1 2nd level spell slot, +1 Will save bonus, and +3 friends.


	3. Chapter 3: The Sorting Ceremony

The first years all filed into the Great Hall apprehensively as McGonagall explained about the four houses. Milo mentally filed them into: house for the PCs, house for the villains, and two NPC houses to make up the numbers. Fair enough.

The other first years around him were nervously discussing what they thought the Sorting Ceremony would entail. The group conclusion seemed to be that it would be some sort of horrible test, performed in front of everybody. Milo's post-level-up elation hadn't passed yet, but he still wished he hadn't burned so many spell slots on helping Neville find that toad. There was a kerfuffle as a group of ghosts drifted through the walls, but Milo was already ready for this. He shuddered to think of what he would have done in this situation had he not met the late Professor Binns the other day.

The students were formed into a line alphabetically by McGonagall, and once more Milo cursed his last name. Why couldn't he have been Milo Liadon-Amastacia instead? The only person in front of him was a pink-faced, blonde girl.

"Wh-what do you think I'll have to do?" she asked, the signs of abject terror on her face. "I'm first! Why am I _always_ first?" she asked.

"Don't worry, you'll be fine," Milo said. "They expect _everyone _to do this test, remember? So how hard could it be?"

"B-but…"

"And besides, they wouldn't start out every year by humiliating all their new students."

"Maybe it's all just a cruel joke, and everyone will laugh at me," she said through tears.

"If they do, I'll unleash magical hell on them," Milo muttered. What he _meant_ was, 'if they do (that to _me_) I'll unleash magical hell,' but that's not what the frightened young girl heard.

"You would? For me? Th-thank you!"

"Don't mention it," Milo said, slightly embarrassed, and cast about for some fairly generic encouraging platitudes. "You're braver than you think. Just keep that in mind, and confidently walk up there, and whatever happens, happens. Uh. There's bravery in everyone, you just have to look," he finished, somewhat lamely.

"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," McGonagall said to them. "Abbott, Hannah!"

The girl looked determined as she walked up to the stool, and while in another life she might have been sorted into Hufflepuff (not that that's anything to be ashamed of, of course), perhaps it was because she was thinking _I'm braver than I think, I'm braver than I think, I'm braver than I think_, when the hat was placed on her head, it only took a moment before it bellowed:

"GRYFFINDOR!"

"Amastacia-Liadon, Milo!" McGonagall said. _Well, here goes nothing_.

"GRYFFINDOR!" the hat shouted after barely touching his head, and his new house applauded as if it wasn't already a foregone conclusion. Gryffindor was _clearly_ the house for main characters. To confirm his suspicions, Neville, Hermione, Ron, and Harry were all sorted into Gryffindor (although, oddly, the hat seemed to have a hard time deciding with Harry). Draco and his minions, however, were sent to Slytherin. Milo wondered briefly what would have happened if one of Crabbe or Goyle had been sent to Gryffindor—or, perhaps even worse, Hufflepuff. Milo looked around the tables, and found that, oddly, the plates and dishes were all empty. He shrugged and pulled his Everlasting Rations out of his utility belt, and started munching.

"Whacha got there?" Asked Hannah, who had, for some unimaginable reason, sat next to him at the table. On Milo's left was Hermione, followed by Harry, Ron, and Neville.

"Everlasting Rations," Milo explained, gesturing to the blue silk pouch. "They're not very common—I heard about them in an obscure book, and had to get them custom-made—but they're super handy. Every sunrise, the bag fills itself up again."

"Convenient," she said somewhat dubiously. "They tasty?"

"You know, I don't think anyone's ever asked that before." He thought about it for a moment. "Tastes a little like granola, only even less."

She made a face.

"You don't think we were supposed to bring a lunch, do you? They _will _feed us?" she asked. Milo shrugged.

"Hermione?" he asked, on the assumption that she'd know.

Hermione paused briefly, as if doing a mental catalogue search for the relevant information, before reciting as if from memory:

"'Hogwarts is world-renowned for owning some of the best cooking elves, and prides itself in never having one complaint for its dining experience. Durmstrang Acadamy, by comparison, has received four-hundred and forty-four complaints as of the 1991 fifth edition of this book,'" she said. "It's in _Hogwarts, A History_. You should read it sometime."

"Elves?" Milo asked incredulously. "For cooking?" Milo had never known an elf to approach within twenty feet of a frying pan, and doubted that a single solitary potato the world over had ever been peeled by delicate, elven hands. Milo was convinced that they were holding out on a rare, Arcane-version of _Create Food and Drink_, because otherwise, their civilization would have crumbled to dust about two weeks after creation.

"Wish I was rich enough to own an elf," Ron said dreamily. "I'd never have to clean my room again."

Milo's brain heard the sentence, of course, but rejected it immediately with a notice: 'Does not parse.' _Own_ an elf? He must have misheard. Before he could ask, the Headmaster spoke.

"Wecome!" Dumbledore said. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts. Before we begin, I would like to say a few words. And they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

"Thank you!"

And then sat back down again.

"Is he… a bit mad?" Harry asked.

"Well, yeah, he's a bit of a nutter, but some people say it's a disguise and he's really a genius," Ron said.

"He seemed normal when I last talked to him," Milo said.

"And you don't get to be Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards by collecting bottle caps," Hermione said. "Or by being stark raving mad," she added.

Everyone looked at her again.

"It was in _Hogwarts, A History_, and honestly, don't _any_ of you read?" she asked, slightly indignantly.

"Quidditch magazines, mainly," Ron admitted.

"Newspapers rescued from the trash, but only when the Dursley's weren't watching," Harry confessed.

"Outside of spell books and fell arcane tomes? Not that much," Milo said.

Hermione sighed.

"You should try it sometime, you might find it fairly enlighten—oh, my goodness!" Piles and piles of food appeared, suddenly, in front of them.

"Huh, neat trick," Milo said. "I _knew_ the elves cooked their food by magic. Pointy-eared pansies never worked a day in their lives."

His last sentence drew a number of odd looks, but fortunately, most people were too busy digging in to pay much attention to him. Harry Potter in particular looked like he was about to cry tears of joy at the food laid out in front of them. Milo shrugged. To him, food was something to keep you from getting hunger-based check penalties. While the rest of the party was distracted by food (Milo made sure to cast _Detect Poison_ before he touched any of it), Milo decided to check out the head table.

The teachers at Hogwarts were the quirkiest bunch of characters he'd seen since Milo had been hired to take out a gnome barbarian's band of performing cutthroats. One of them was wearing a purple turban. One of them was _tiny_ (Milo couldn't tell, from this distance, if he was a gnome, halfling, or dwarf). One of them was Albus Dumbledore, for gods' sakes. The last, though… now, _he_ was _really_ interesting. Black cloak. Greasy hair. Hooked nose.

Necromancer, hands down. Milo grinned. _Ladies and gentlemen, we have our dark wizard_. Milo gave it a fifty percent chance that the professor was working for You-Know-Who, with the _other_ fifty percent saying he _was_ You-Know-Who. The only nail missing from his coffin was a goatee.

"Hey, Hermione, who's he?" Milo gestured to the obviously evil wizard.

"'Professor Severus Snape, born 1960, made Potions Master at Hogwarts in 1981 by Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, and as of 1991, is the Head of House Slytherin,'" she recited. "_Hogwarts, A History_, page 371."

"You're a very useful person to have around, you know that?" Milo asked. Hermione beamed. "Harry, listen up. Add Snape to your list, he's bad news."

"Are you sure?" Harry asked.

"Absolutely. I mean, just _look_ at him. He's wearing all black, for goodness sake."

"Er, I don't mean to put too fine of a point on it, but we're all, also, wearing all black, Milo," Harry said, gesturing at his uniform.

"It's black of a different sort. We're in the sober, working black. He's in _evil_ black. Back me up here, Ron."

"Fred and George say he's a smarmy git, and he favours Slytherin students outrageously," Ron said. "They also say that he's half bat, he can read your mind, and that shampoo spontaneously combusts when it touches his hair, but I think they made that last one up."

"He's probably just allergic to shampoo," Hermione said. "He's a _professor_. He can't be _evil_, or Dumbledore wouldn't let him teach here."

Milo barked a laugh. They clearly had _very_ different views of education.

Harry abruptly clutched his forehead in pain.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked in concern.

"I was just looking at Snape, and suddenly my scar hurt," Harry said.

"The scar You-Know-Who gave you?"

"No, the _other_ scar on my forehead, of _course_ the scar Vol- You-Know-Who gave me," Harry snapped. Hermione blushed slightly. "S-sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to be mean, I was just so _angry_ all of a sudden… it was weird."

"I'd say that's basically proof," Milo said. "Harry looked at Snape, and his curse scar hurt. Ergo, Snape is evil."

"Sounds good to me," Ron voiced his agreement. "I mean, _look_ at him. Seriously."

"I don't think we should just jump to conclusions like this," Hermione said. "One's fashion choices and hygiene, no matter how unfortunate, have no bearing on moral standing. Also, we should really tell an adult about Harry's scar, it might be important—he might need a healer."

"What does Snape need to do, eat a baby or something?" Milo asked. New PCs could be so _thick_ sometimes.

"He hasn't even _done_ anything yet," Hermione protested.

"She has a point," Harry added. "All he's done is sit there. Maybe he's a really nice bloke, and I don't think any of us know enough magic yet to say if my scar's reaction means anything. We should give him the benefit of the doubt."

"Fine, it's your adventure, after all. But can we at least agree to keep a close eye on him?" Milo pleaded.

They all agreed, albeit in Hermione's case, somewhat reluctantly.

Dumbledore then stood to make another speech, laying out some ground rules. The Forbidden Forest was—hah, yeah _right_. Milo couldn't imagine a better way to encourage students to go there and gain XP than to forbid them from doing it. Milo's ears really perked up at hearing about the forbidden, trapped, mysterious corridor, however. Harry laughed when he Dumbledore said that anyone who investigated it would die a painful death, but nobody else did. The Headmaster was serious.

Milo grinned. He loved this school already.

"I can't believe Quidditch is restricted to second years," Ron complained.

"What's Quidditch?" Harry, Hermione, and Milo asked simultaneously. Ron fainted into his pudding. Once he came around, he described the rules. It was some unbelievably dangerous-sounding sport (two of the players' jobs were to send heavy leather balls flying at the opposing team!) played on broomstick. As Ron explained about the Golden Snitch, Milo considered it thoughtfully. From what he could tell, the Seeker's success or failure completely invalidated everything that the other players did. It was as if the sport was set up entirely to give Seekers a backdrop to compete against.

"I _like_ it!" Milo said. "It has _everything_. Magic, danger, and rules blatantly skewed for the PCs to shine. Harry, make sure to write this down." The Boy-Who-Lived dutifully added it to his growing list of plot-relevant items.

"I think it sounds stupid," Hermione declared, ignoring Ron's protests. "And way too dangerous to be allowed in a school setting. Flying in general sounds dreadful."

Dumbledore sent them all to bed, so Percy—as Gryffindor prefect—led the first years to their lair. En route, they were attacked by Peeves.

"Peeves! Show yourself!" Percy bellowed. "He's a poltergeist—be careful, he only answers to the Bloody Baron. That's the Slytherin ghost."

"Getting all this, Harry?" Milo asked. Peeves flew past, throwing sticks at Neville's head. "Prefect, that was an attack if I've ever seen one. Permission to retaliate?"

"Now, I don't think that will be necessary. He knows that if he goes too far, I'll tell the Baron," Percy said. "Besides—" Percy was interrupted, however, when Peeves unloaded a bucket of water on the prefect's head. "Hit him with everything you've got, Mr. Amastacia-Liadon. _Everything_."

"_Glitterdust_!" Milo shouted, the shower of sparks blinding the poltergeist for _twenty-four_ seconds, now (level-ups were the greatest), and preventing him from turning invisible. Peeves, whirling in astonished fury, began dropping walking sticks, pies, and associated other miscellany on the students. "_Feather Fall!_" Milo cast, slowing their descent to a harmless speed. As a _coup de grace_, once the blindness wore off, then created a _Silent Image_ of the Bloody Baron slowly drifting around the corner. Peeves bolted, leaving a trail of glittering dust in his wake.

"Well _done_!" Percy congratulated him, after using a Cleaning Charm to dry himself off. "Is everyone alright? Excellent. That was Peeves the Poltergeist, if you encounter him in the halls, it's best to find a member of the faculty or the Bloody Baron. He won't hurt deliberately hurt you—though his pranks can at times get out of hand—but he's irritating, and might make you late for class. After decades of certain disreputable Hogwarts students using Peeves as an pretext for tardiness, teachers have stopped accepting run-ins with the poltergeist as an excuse."

Milo couldn't believe they had random encounter _within the castle walls_. This school was _awesome_. Percy led them, finally, to the Gryffindor Common Room, which was guarded by a painting requiring a password. Milo hadn't realized that inter-house rivalry was quite so… _heated_… as to require secret bases and passwords, but it fit with his general theory of Hogwarts education.

Both Harry and Milo felt at home immediately upon entering Gryffindor tower, but for different reasons. Harry was overwhelmed at all of the magic and wonder, and glad to finally be rid of his abusive foster parents. The sense of camaraderie in the dorm was something new and amazing to him. Milo, on the other hand, felt the calling of all wizards everywhere, regardless of universe: wizard=tower, tower=wizard. He was excited for tomorrow, when he could fully enjoy the benefits of being fourth level, and memorize a whole slew of new spells. He decided, after a bit of thought, to add _Levitate_ and _Invisibility_ to his repertoire. He made sure to prepare an extra _Silent Image_ in case of another run-in with Peeves.

The next morning was… interesting. Word had spread that the famous Harry Potter was attending school, and Milo's unfortunate friend was pestered with constant whispering and glances. Milo suggested that he borrow some makeup from Hannah (Hermione didn't seem the type) and hide the tell-tale scar (minor details only gave +5 to Disguise checks), but Harry adamantly refused, claiming it was the only reminder he had of his parents. Ron howled with laughter at the suggestion, adding that some eyeliner or, as he put it, "guyliner," would really bring out Harry's emerald eyes.

Their first class was Herbology, which Milo figured was safe enough. He was a bit concerned that learning about plants meant he might be obliged to invest Skill Ranks in Knowledge (Nature), or, Vecna forbid, Survival, but after clarifying that it was _magical_ herbs they were studying, Milo was quite convinced his Knowledge (Arcana) would be up to the task. History of Magic was likewise no trouble at all, Milo spent the class trying to figure out what his immediate response would be when the ghost of Professor Binns invariably snapped and starting draining the students' Constitution scores, or when an evil Cleric showed up and seized control of the undead Professor with Command Undead.

Professor Flitwick apparently taught Charms, which was a problem for Milo. As a specialized Conjurer, he was obliged to drop two schools of magic—he chose Necromancy (he didn't look good in pale make-up and mascara) and Enchantment (he was uncomfortable about mentally controlling people). The Charms subschool fell neatly into the second category of spells, which Milo was forbidden from casting. Fortunately, the excitable professor, who Milo was convinced was some sort of deformed gnome, fainted dead away when he called Harry Potter's name while taking attendance.

"What have we got next?" Milo asked Ron.

"Uhh, let me check," the redhead said, patting his pockets for his schedule. "Transfiguration with McGonagall. I hear she's really strict."

"Transfiguration, eh? That… might be a problem," Milo frowned. That would involve, presumably, performing actual magic with a wand—something Milo hadn't even tried to do. He was worried that if he actually succeeded, he might wind up as a multi-classed Wizard/"wizard," and be doomed to spend the rest of his days as a walking joke of a character.

"Why's that?" asked a first-year NPC. The other Gryffindors had started following Milo around between their classes after word spread that he could scare off Peeves.

Professor McGonagall was so astonished that the entire class arrived on time (apparently, that had never happened before) that she awarded them five points for Gryffindor. After then warning them of the dangers of Transfiguration, she told them to try and transform a matchstick into a pin.

Milo broke out into a cold sweat, staring at the stick in front of him. Surely, wizards in this plane couldn't cast _Polymorph Any Object_ at first level? That was an eighth level spell! Milo felt a bit foolish waving his wand around ineffectually, but he really wasn't sure what else he could do. Hermione, sitting next to him, had managed to turn her matchstick silver.

Milo's eyes narrowed.

"_Prestidigitation_," he murmured. It was a cantrip, a 0th-level spell, used for practice by novice casters—but it was also one of the most versatile. Milo preferred to think of it as _Least Wish_. One of its many effects was that it could recolour an object temporarily.

He then sat back smugly in his desk chair, satisfied with a job well done.

McGonagall passed by, giving encouragement and pointers to the struggling students she passed. Upon reaching Milo, however, she frowned and stared at the silver matchstick. To Milo, it was indistinguishable from Hermione's. McGonagall picked it up, examined it very carefully, and dropped it on the desk. It made a quiet, wooden _tick_.

"Mr. Amastacia-Liadon," she said sternly, "did you _paint_ your matchstick?"

"N-No, Professor," he stammered. Drat, curse her cross-class ranks in Intimidate!

"Then bravo. One point for Gryffindor," she said grudgingly, before walking to Hermione. She frowned, and gave hers the same examination. She dropped it, and it gave a silvery metal _ping!_ Upon colliding with the desk.

"Well _done_, Ms. Granger! It's been many years since I've seen someone change anything more than mere colour on their first try! Two points for Gryffindor!" Hermione turned slightly pink, and shot Milo a smug look when McGonagall passed by.

Next was Potions—with the Slytherins, no less. _Whoever is involved in the scheduling of classes_, Milo thought, _should be awarded a medal_. He couldn't think of a possible scenario that would lead to greater conflict than the obviously evil head of the obviously evil house teaching the heroes and villains _together_. Put a PC in a powderkeg like that, and there'd be an explosion, sure as sure.

Milo was the only Gryffindor smiling when they entered Snape's dungeon. _Dungeon_. It had been _far_ too long since Milo had been in a proper dungeon, now all they needed was a troll or two to complete his day.

Milo didn't know what, specifically, was going to go down in the dungeon. But he knew someone was going to start a fight, and he _knew_ who was going to finish it.

He chose his desk warily, deciding to go right in the dead-centre. The rest of the Gryffindors sat on the right-hand side of the classroom, leaving the left-hand side empty—a clear message for the Slytherins (whenever they deigned to arrive). From the border between the two groups, Milo could safely target the entire Slytherin first year with a well-placed spell on the first round of combat.

There is an infrequently-used rule (and Milo loved infrequently-used rules) called the _ready action_. A character can, on his turn, ready an action to do something specific when certain triggers, which he chooses in advace, occur—immediately. It allowed rapid action, as long as you were prepared enough.

As the Slytherins drifted in one-by-one (a few were covered in whitewash, mute evidence of Peeves' "humorous" "pranks"), Milo readied an action: Glitterdust_ in the centre of the Slytherin side of the room as soon as the first Slytherin acts offensively against a Gryffindor._ That should cover it.

Snape walked into the room like a man with a purpose. He quickly called out attendance, pausing on Harry's name.

"Ah, yes," he said softly. "Our new—_celebrity_." Draco and his mooks sniggered. The other Gryffindors sitting along the borderline—Neville, Hannah, and Lavender—sat tensely, their hands near their wands. Snape began his introductory monologue, lingering, a bit _too_ lovingly for Milo's taste, on the 'subtle science and exact art of potion-making.'

"Potter!" said Snape, suddenly. Harry sat bolt upright, a brief look of terror on his face. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Milo frowned. _Nothing_, he thought. _Except, of course, a gods-awful smell_.

"I don't know, sir." Harry said. _Ah, well, even Wizards fail a Knowledge check once in a while._

"Tut, tut—fame clearly isn't everything," Snape sneered. _Well now, that's just _rude.

"Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"

Hermione's hand shot into the air, as did Milo's.

"I don't know, sir," Potter said, his voice barely shaking at all.

"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?"

_Well now, there's no reason for him to act like that to the poor _Gryffindor _kid,_ Milo thought. _In fact, the head of House _Slytherin_ was acting downright _offensively_… Oh, crud._

"_GLITTERDUST!_"


	4. Chapter 4: The Defence Professor

"You know, it really could have been worse," Hermione said.

"Can't see how," said one of the Patil twins (the Gryffindor one, whatever her name was).

"Well," said Lavender Brown, "at least the bloodshed was kept to a minimum."

"And St. Mungo's says Neville's supposed to make a full recovery," added Hannah Abbot.

"And we weren't expelled," Hermione pointed out.

"Also," continued Lavender, "Snape managed to _Finite_ that toad—who summoned that, anyway? I don't think I've ever seen quite that shade of orange before—before Pansy Parkinson suffered permanent injury."

"Really, it's a wonder he knew which one to cast it on. Couldn't tell the two apart myself," muttered Ron.

"I think only taking ten points off showed remarkable restraint, all things considered," Hermione mused. "Shame it was from every first year in Gryffindor, though."

"Because, you know, seeing as how she looks like a toad," Ron said, disappointed at the initial lack of response.

"Assuming we don't assault the Slytherins anymore, and we all put in a few extra hours and some hard work in practice and revisions," Hermione said cheerfully, "I think we might be able to manage to beat the Hufflepuffs at least—not that there's anything wrong with them, perfectly respectable house—in the House Cup standings."

Seamus and several other largely interchangeable first years groaned.

"Nothing a Golden Snitch or two won't fix," Ron said hopefully. "Wood reckons—assuming we can find a Seeker half as good as Charlie was—we stand a decent chance at taking the Quidditch Cup from Slytherin this year."

"_Cease_," said the Bloody Baron. He didn't exactly shout, and it wasn't exactly _loud_—in fact, it seemed little more than a whisper. But even over the ten complaining eleven-year-olds (and Hermione, who was in fact twelve) the ghost's voice was clearly audible. "Be glad it's only house points and detention… when I still attended this school, we didn't use the Cat O'Nine Tails."

The Gryffindors fell silent. A few scratched their heads, pondering the Baron's last statement. Harry knew he shouldn't—he really, _really_ knew it—but he just couldn't help himself. He had to ask.

"D-don't you mean, you _still_ used the Cat O'Nine Tails?"

"No. It was introduced by a weak, soft headmaster after Emeric the Evil retired—by a _Hufflepuff_, as I recall," the Baron mused. Harry swallowed. _If a nine-tipped whip was seen as soft enough for a _Hufflepuff_—not that there's anything wrong with them—to use instead of whatever they did before…_

The entire first year of Gryffindor was in detention, overseen by the silvery coloured ghost of Slytherin. Their task was simple enough on the surface: they had to keep the suits of armour that lined the halls of Hogwarts free of rust. The catch wasn't that they couldn't use magic (which they couldn't, of course) or even that they were supervised by the Bloody Baron (Milo couldn't help but wonder _where_ the Bloody Baron's eponymous blood came from. _It isn't because the Baron died violently, or Nearly Headless Nick would be at _least_ as bad_...) but it was that the paintings were ordered to ignore them during detention.

Now, you may be thinking, "is that all?" And if so, it is because you've never been eleven years old in a shopping mall after closing time, completely alone, with only a teddy bear. Only in this case, the shopping mall has (at last count, and rounding up) a completely unknown number of floors. And the staircases move. As do some floors. One notable corridor appears to _twist_ somewhere in the middle, and by the end of it you're walking on stone and there's a carpet along the ceiling. But only on every other Tuesday, except on leap years. And the shopping mall is a castle. And that castle is Hogwarts.

_And_ _your teddy bear is missing_.

It only took half an hour for Hannah (Neville was still in St. Mungo's) to vanish.

"Okay, the thing we need to do is not panic," Hermione said calmly, "and search for her in a _group._ As long as we all stay together, we should be—"

"Nah, that's rubbish," Ron interrupted. "We're at a four-way intersection, and there's still nine of us. We can find her faster if we divvy up, send two in every direction except one, which gets three. Faster we find her, the faster we clean these ruddy statues."

"No, there's only _three_ directions to go in unless we go backwards and in any case that's beside the point because if we split then _we'll_ have to stop and go looking for _you_—"

"What, just because you're so much _smarter_ than all of us?" Ron asked rudely. "For all you know, _we_ could have to go find _you_!"

"That's exactly my point!" Hermione shouted.

"So we're in agreement. We split up."

"No!" Milo shouted. "You _never_ split the party! _Never_!"

"You're one to talk, you got us into this mess," Lavender accused.

"Says the girl who lit Pansy Parkinson on fire," that Patil girl muttered.

"That cow had it coming," Lavender said defensively. "She called me a cow."

"We're getting sidetracked," Hermione insisted. "We need to find Hannah, and the best way to do that is to systematically search every room and hallway, as a group, that she could have got to in ten minutes."

"That could take the rest of our lives!" Ron said. "Let's just split up and find her already!"

"No, I'm telling you—"

"Fine, how about a compromise? I'll split up with Harry, Dean and Seamus, you and the others stay together. Coming, Harry?"

Harry gave an apologetic look and followed Ron and the others down the corridor on the right-hand side.

Hermione sighed. "Okay, well the rest of us can start on the left and work our way through—"

"Who put you in charge, anyway?" Lavender asked. "Parvati, Fay, and I can take the centre. We'll have found Hannah and be back to cleaning statues while you're still _organising_." Lavender strode off, followed by a pair of witches.

"Parvati!" Milo said. "So _that's_ her name."

Hermione groaned.

"You know, I sometimes wish I'd been sorted into Ravenclaw," she muttered. "This sort of behaviour would never stand there. I don't suppose you have any tricks up your sleeve?"

"Loads," said Milo. "But _Locate Creature_ is a fourth-level spell, and I can only do up to second. And unless Hannah's met an unfortunate end, _Locate Object_ won't be able to find her."

"Huh," said Hermione. "So you can find objects with magic, but not living things?"

"Yeah, that's basically what I just said. Any unique object I've seen firsthand, or the closest one of a type of object."

"Find her robes," commanded Hermione.

Milo paused.

"I think that's cheating," he said. "Or at least, bending the rules to the point of breaking... I _like_ it." He imagined, as best he could, Hannah's robes in his mind—easy, because they were exactly the same as the ones he and Hermione were wearing. "_Locate Object_—Hannah's robes_._"

"So, where is she?"

"Uh. Sort of between forwards and left, and up a little. Now down. Now up again."

"What? Any idea how far?"

"No, except that she has to be within the range of the spell. 560 feet at the outer limit."

They decided to head left, based on the fact that it seemed to have as big a chance of being correct as forwards and they didn't have to deal with Lavender and whoever those other two girls were.

"Wish Neville were here," Milo said.

"Why's that?" Hermione asked as they walked. He was nice enough—for a boy—Hermione supposed, but he wasn't exactly _useful_.

"Well, see, if he were then _he'd_ be the one who wandered off and got lost. Then we'd be looking for him," he explained, "and not Hannah Abbot."

"You have a very unusual view of the world, you know that? So tell me," she asked slyly, "why would you rather Hannah were here, with us?"

"Because then there'd be three of us, and we'd have a higher chance of making our Spot checks."

"Our what's?"

"Spot checks. You make them when, say, Peeves is sneaking up on you from behind. And I have a feeling we failed one."

"And why is that?"

"Just a feeling I get sometimes—wait. Hannah's moving." The spell stopped tugging him forwards and left, and abruptly started pulling more to the right. And then down, rapidly. "She's falling," he said. "And depending on the distance, it might be pretty fast."

"We should find a professor _immediately_," Hermione said. "She might be hurt."

"For once, I agree with you—but how are we going to find one? Face it, we're lost."

"Gah!" Hermione said. "There must be _something_ we can do. What other spells do you know?"

Milo started listing. For an ordinary Wizard of his level, there would be only about a dozen or so—but Milo was no ordinary Wizard. He was an _optimized_ Wizard, and one extremely broken ability he'd traded the ability to make magical scrolls for allowed him to cast any kind of wizard Divination spell—spells for finding things, information, and people—he'd heard of. He'd heard rumours that it could be used for non-Wizard spells as well, but Milo was unwilling to risk it. He knew the horror stories of what could happen to those who bent the rules too far... suffice to say that the universe could be capricious.

"You can _read people's minds_?" Hermione gasped, after Milo explained _Detect Thoughts_. "You're a Legilimens!"

"First of all, that's not a word, and second of all, only surface thoughts. There's a whole bunch of restrictions on it, too."

"Other than _Locate Object_, though, there's not much there to help us. A rather large amount of them seem to be focussed on fighting, which can't be very useful."

Milo chuckled slightly.

"Well, not today, maybe. We're completely screwed, aren't we?"

"Unfortunately," Hermione said. She sighed and slid down a wall, sitting on the cold stone floor. "If only we could ask one of the portraits for help."

"M-m-might I b-be of assistance?" Asked a timid voice. Behind them stood the erratic Professor Quirrell.

"See. Told you we failed a spot check," Milo muttered.

"Professor! You have to help us!" Hermione blurted out. "Hannah went missing and everyone ran off to go find her, and now we're hopelessly lost. We can't ask the portraits for help, because we're... in... detention." She said the last three words slowly, as if her mouth found them strange and foreign. Milo shrugged. He'd never been in detention, either, but then again he'd never really gone to school before.

"Sh-shouldn't be t-terribly difficult," he stammered. "W-when I w-was in R-R-Romania once, my p-party was separated by v-v-v-"the blood drained from his face, and he sat down shakily. "v-vampires."

_There's vampires in this world? _Milo thought worriedly. He made a note to start taking anti-vampire precautions. _Garlic, holy symbols... where's a Cleric when you need one?_ Milo sniffed. Quirrell's turban emanated the distinct odour of garlic. _Smart_, Milo thought, _in case they're recurring characters and come for revenge_.

"Hold up," Milo said. "Vampires in this world: do they act like, well, like normal vampires? You know, suck blood, never age, can turn other people into vampires? That sort of thing?"

"Y-y-yes," Quirrell stammered reluctantly. He clearly didn't want to talk about vampires anymore.

"They _don't age_." Milo repeated again. "So they could live forever unless they ran out of blood or someone stakes 'em?"

"I-I s-s-s-suppose so," Quirrell said. His stammer was increasing in frequency.

"Milo, we have to find Hannah. We'll worry about vampires later, okay?" Hermione said.

"No, this is important," he said. Hermione opened her mouth to say _Hannah is important, too_, so Milo added, "Really important."

Hermione frowned, but fell silent. Quirrell looked intrigued.

"So: we know You-Know-Who wanted to become immortal at any cost, right?" Milo said. "I don't know much, but it sounds to me like that was one of his major motivations."

"Yes," Quirrell said. "Yes, he did ever seek eternal life."

"And, we know that You-Know-Who didn't really die," Milo said. Hermione sighed. _We don't _know _that,_ she thought. _We don't even suspect it. We don't have a shred of evidence._

"Do we, now?" Quirrell asked. "Do we, _really_? Who else knows?"

"Just us, but it's obvious to anyone with a brain. I'm sure Dumbledore knows all about it, and Harry, Hermione, Ron and I, of course, are going to stop him. Anyways, back to the point: becoming a vampire isn't nearly as nontrivial as, say, some sort of secret dark ritual for eternal life or I don't even know what. All it takes is a couple of minions and a vampire: vampire turns you, minions kill the original vampire, you're free."

"To what purpose?" Quirrell asked.

"Immortality, of course. Eternal unlife. I think we should seriously consider the possibility that You-Know-Who is a vampire," Milo concluded. He had a nagging feeling, like he failed a skill check of some sort, but it was probably nothing. "He doesn't seem the type to mind having to drink blood every so often to live."

Quirrell frowned, but said nothing.

"We need to find _Hannah_," Hermione stressed. "She could be in serious danger—and all the other first years are still scattered across the castle."

"When last I saw, th-the young M-Miss Abbot w-was swimming to the sh-shore of the lake," Quirrell said, his eyes going briefly distant. Milo wondered what possible reason someone would need to use both Still and Silent spell on _Scry_. "P-Percy the G-G-G-G- ah, your house's P-Prefect was attempting to u-use a H-H-hovering Charm to a-assist her. I-I believe she is q-quite well."

"Well, that's a relief. I wonder how she wound up there?" Hermione asked. "We should probably try to find all the others now, too."

The task proved somewhat more difficult than they'd hoped, and even with the help of the paintings (who could, at Quirrell's request, attempt to locate the students but not speak to them), it took the better part of the afternoon. Lavender and co had been delayed by Peeves, who managed to convince them that Hannah was just around the corner (and then around the next corner, and the next, and so on until they were hopelessly lost) while Ron had found himself locked in an old, unused classroom, but when he turned around the door had vanished. Harry and Seamus had got cornered by Filch and lectured lengthily about wandering off. They finally found Dean sitting comfortably in the Gryffindor common room, but he refused to say how he'd got there.

"Great," Hermione said worriedly, "just great. After detention and then hunting down our classmates without enough sense to wander off, I haven't had the chance to even touch _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection _for a whole day! I've probably forgotten everything and Defence against the Dark Arts is _tomorrow_!"

"Insufferable, isn't she?" Ron asked Harry, who looked uncomfortable. "How many times have you read that book already, Hermione?"

"Three," she said, then the blood drained from her face. "Oh my god, only three! I'm not going to know _anything_ what if there's a _quiz_ or he _asks me_, I'm going to j-just stand there in front of everyone and not know the difference between a Grindylow and a Boggart!"

"What, in the name of Elminster's pointy hat, is a Boggart?" Milo asked.

"A household pest that takes the form of whatever its viewer fears," she said shakily.

"You have shapeshifting fear monsters as house pests here?" Milo asked, impressed. "Cool!" Mordy, sitting on his shoulder, nodded vigorously.

"W-we aren't supposed to learn about them until third year but maybe Professor Quirrell will try to get the jump on us like Snape did with Harry, so I thought I should be prepared and read ahead a little, but what if it isn't enough? And I wind up sitting there like Harry did until this trigger-happy lunatic assaults the Slytherins again," she nodded to Milo. "I'm _sorry!_ I don't mean to be insufferable!" she was looking really distraught.

"Hermione, it's alright. Ron's just upset because you were right about not splitting up, and it made him look a mite daft," Harry said gently. He looked at Ron. "I'm sorry, but it _did_." He turned back to Hermione. "He's embarrassed, is all."

"What, me, mate? Embarrassed?" asked Ron, defensively. "Nah. It's only that this bookworm keeps just _leaping_ at the chance to show how much better she is than us. Really, she should have been in Ravenclaw. Then her own kind would have to put up with her."

Hermione fled the Common Room, sobbing. Hannah shot him a look that could petrify a Medusa with PC class levels, and chased after her.

"What?" he asked. Harry shrugged.

"I think she's been hit by a _Crushing Despair_ spell," Milo said. "Maybe I should go find her, and see if I can—"

"No." Parvati Patil said.

"—see if I can dispel her," he finished. "Then she'd be fine."

"Don't even dream about it. Hannah will handle it, you stay here. Magic," Parvati said, "is _not_ the problem. Ron, a word?" she asked, sounding deceptively sweet.

"Yeah, in a mo, only me and Harry were about to play Wizard's Chess," he said.

"No, Ron. _Now_." The girl insisted.

o—o—o—o

"I've _finally_ had a response from my contacts at the Ministry," Dumbledore said to his assembled Heads of Houses.

"Albus, it's been nearly a week. Surely they could have responded earlier?" Minerva McGonagall criticised, sitting down across the desk from him. She wondered how he could even think in this office, with all its whirring and clicking silver contraptions. When, and hopefully it would be a long time from today, she became Headmistress she would have them carefully and respectfully placed in a closet someplace. A clean one, of course, but on the other side of the castle.

"Unfortunately, not even Merlin himself could devise a spell capable of cutting through red tape." Dumbledore sighed. "The short answer is that there have been no reported attacks on any wealthy wizard's residence recently, and no detections of underage magic from the vicinity around Hogsmeade."

"I knew it," Snape sneered. "The boy spun us a web of lies. No mere child could escape Death Eaters."

"I really had thought better of him," McGonagall sighed. "Oh well, I suppose he _is_ only a boy. Any word on the broomstick, Filius?"

"Well, as we all know, reported thefts are kept quite confidential down at the DMLE," Filius said. McGonagall sighed, she'd hoped they could make headway there. "But I have a friend from my duelling days down in the Department of Mysteries, and he used to share an office with someone in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and _he_ says that while no official reports have been filed, his old flame down in the organ that handles broomstick registry claims that Walden Macnair—who works as Executioner for the Ministry, but he's an ex-Death Eater—recently bought a Nimbus Two Thousand," Flitwick said proudly, then paused to catch his breath.

"Which tells us what, exactly? These... broomsticks... are, I'm led to believe, extremely popular," Snape said.

"They are also extremely expensive, and Macnair already owned one." Flitwick said with aplomb.

"Hardly evidence. A man can have two broomsticks," Snape said. To Dumbledore, however, he gave a quick, discreet nod. Dumbledore sighed.

"I have other information, and I dare not say from where or who, that suggests the Death Eaters are up to their old game again."

Professor Sprout gasped.

"Surely not, Headmaster? Not with their leader dead, and their numbers reduced?" she asked, her voice gripped with fear.

"I'm afraid so, Pomona."

"We should contact the Aurors at once!" McGonagall exclaimed.

"Without any proof? Lucius would have any who acted sacked," Snape sneered, slouched across his chair.

"I'm afraid, Severus, that you are correct," Dumbledore said. "We shall have to be extra vigiliant."

"And, what of the boy?" Flitwick asked.

"He shall continue his education here at Hogwarts until he learns to control his magic—accidents like what happened in Severus's Potions class _cannot_ be allowed to happen out where Muggles might see—and until we are _certain_ Macnair and his comrades have forgotten that young Milo stole the broomstick," Dumbledore said. "He appears to be an exceptionally confused and troubled young orphan, but his heart is true. Quirinius spoke very highly of him this evening, and how he attempted to help rescue—unsuccessfully, unfortunately—a number of lost Gryffindors."

Snape smiled briefly. He was particularly proud of that punishment.

"Which brings me to another matter," Dumbledore continued gravely. "Hagrid has been finding something most concerning in the Forbidden Forest." The Heads of Houses listened carefully, intrigued. "He's found signs—blood, some hair—that something has been attacking the unicorns who live there."

Sprout gasped. McGonagall looked stunned. Flitwick shook his head sadly, and even Snape looked disgusted. Attacking a unicorn was low, even by his standards.

"Hagrid has been unable to find whatever has been causing the attacks, but Quirrell has volunteered, as Defence Professor, to take over the investigation. He said that it was likely the work of some fell creature—or possibly even a powerful dark wizard."

If the collective amount of surprise felt by the assembled professors were expressed in terms of, say, water, using the baseline of one fair-sized pink plastic beach bucket full of seawater representing the surprise felt when a politician suggests something sensible in Parliament and a bathtub full of water representing the theoretical surprise _not_ felt when the idea _doesn't_ get ridiculed by the opposing party, then their earlier surprise (when they heard of the unicorn attacks) could be collected in a two-litre bottle of Diet Coke (once said Diet Coke has been safely disposed of alongside other toxic chemicals) while their current surprise, caused by hearing that Quirrell had volunteered for something dangerous, was almost, but not quite, the size of the Mediterranean Sea.

"Well, now," McGonagall mused. "It seems we've quite underestimated the Defence Professor."

"Indeed, it appears that, in a crisis, he can really pull himself together," Filius said. "I'm rather proud of him, actually."

"He also pointed out that this is an _excellent_ opportunity for detention," Dumbledore said. "Between him and Hagrid, any students with them will be quite safe, but absolutely petrified."

"You're not suggesting we _deliberately_ send children into the Forbidden Forest—it got its name for a _reason_, Albus—to hunt after something vile enough to attack a unicorn?"

"I, for one, rather like the idea," Snape said. "Should make that _boy_ think twice about attacking _my_ students."

o—o—o—o

"I heard there's _werewolves_ in the Forbidden Forest!" Ron said when they heard the news. McGonagall had come to inform them that Quirrell had offered an alternate detention for Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Milo; and that while it _was_ particularly awful, if they went then the statue-cleaning punishment for _all_ the Gryffindors would be reduced.

"It's not a full moon, Ron," Hermione sighed.

"What, werewolves are _real_?" Harry asked.

"_Obviously_, everyone knows that," said Ron. "They're as real as dragons and goblins."

"_Dragons_ are rea—no, nevermind. If we do this, it counts against how many statues we have to clean—and after the last time, I think we want to avoid that," Harry said. "I'm in."

"Same. The experience _alone_ will be well worth it," Milo said. "And I can probably handle anything they throw at me."

"You're insane, mate," Ron said. "I'd sooner clean another _thousand_ statues than set one foot in that forest."

"I'm with Ron," Hermione said. "Cleaning isn't so bad, and that sounds _really dangerous_."

"We'll be fine," Milo said. "Quirrell will be with us, and _I_ for one like the cut of his jib."

"And Hagrid will be there," Harry said. "What's the worst that could happen?"


	5. Chapter 5: The Forbidden Forest

They met Hagrid and the quietly quivering Quirinus Quirrell in the Great Hall. Hagrid, evidently some sort of half-giant Ranger, was carrying a heavy crossbow (Milo was skeptical, light crossbows were _much_ more damage-efficient) and carrying Fang's leash. Milo had carefully prepared his spells that morning, and avoided casting any throughout the day – meaning the Gryffindors started to be late for class, again, as Peeves could harass them with impunity, and Milo was starting to appear rather useless in their lessons. Still, he wasn't about to venture into something called the _Forbidden Forest _without a full complement of spells.

"_Mage Armour,_" he cast as soon as they approached the professor and the Keeper of the Keys. A thin, invisible field of force surrounded him like a second skin. It was far from complete protection, but it would help a little.

"Hagrid!" Harry said happily.

"A-all right" Quirrell said. "our j-job is simple: all we're t-to do is enter the f-f-forest and f-find whatever it is a-attacking the u-unicorns," he stammered nervously. "A-and then r-return to H-Hogwarts so the H-Headmaster and I can d-d-decide what to do."

"Sounds like a plan," Milo said, although he privately wondered why all the powerful wizards living in Hogwarts didn't just use some Divinations to determine what was in the forest.

"Yeh all right, Harry?" Hagrid asked the Boy-Who-Lived. Potter looked a little nervous, but determined. Milo was a little impressed that he'd volunteered for this, his friend was only three days into his wizard training. Milo hadn't actually seen him perform any actual magic, yet. _Now that's guts_, he thought. _But smart. If he lives, anything we encounter will give him so much XP that he's bound to level up at _least_ once._

"Let's be off, then," Hagrid said, and led them through the grounds. _Hogwarts sure looks eerie at night,_ Milo thought. _A bit like Thamior's old place_. Milo felt a brief pang of homesickness; Thamior was evil to the core, sure, but after the number of times Milo and his party had defeated him, he was practically family. "Now, I want ter be clear: anythin' happens – anythin' at all – and yer ter send up red sparks an' run, yeh hear?"

Harry and Milo nodded mutely. Milo could do close enough with a _Dancing Lights_ spell.

"A-and keep y-your eyes p-p-p-peeled," said Quirrell. "A-and stick c-close."

A soft breeze caused the chill night air to bite clean through their school uniforms, and Milo pulled out a warm scarf and some wool gloves (fingerless, so as not to interfere with his spellcasting gestures) from his belt.

"Right. I'll take Harry an' Fang, Quirrell can take Milo," Hagrid said as they reached the outskirts of the forest.

"What, we're splitting up?" Harry asked.

"We've had bad experiences with that before," Milo added.

"Best way to find what we're lookin' fer," Hagrid said. "Too big of a group, an' we'll spook it. Remember: run in ter trouble, send sparks."

"Well, Harry," Milo said. "See you on the other side, right?"

"Course. Don't worry, I'm sure we'll be fine," Harry said. Milo was astonished – was Harry trying to reassure _him_?

"You know, Harry, I think that one day – when you've gone up a few levels, and get a few magic items – you'll be quite the hero. Good luck."

The two groups split up and entered the forest.

"So, what are we looking for, exactly, Professor?" Milo asked Quirrell.

"We are not yet certain," Quirrell said. "Something that's been attacking unicorns – almost certainly some kind of animal. Keep an eye out for any unicorn's blood; it has a distinctive silver colour."

Again, Milo had the nagging feeling that he'd failed a skill check. Quirrell had his wand at the ready. It felt like they'd been walking for hours, but Milo doubted it was more than half of one.

"Bet this is old hat for you, right?" Milo asked, feeling slightly nervous. "You probably charge into the Forbidden Forest every other week, fighting monsters and things?"

"No, that's Hagrid's job. I've only been this deep twice before," Quirrell said.

"Oh. Good."

"Wait, _quiet_ – I think I heard something," Quirrell said. "Best hide behind that tree, I'll investigate. Just stay down."

Before Milo could argue, Quirrel strode off the path with his wand held out like a weapon – which, Milo, supposed, it was. Milo shrugged and ducked behind a tree, which was covered in soft moss. He heard rustling in the darkness, and debated whether to cast _Dancing Lights_ to see what was going on. He eventually decided against, reasoning that the light _might_ reveal some sort of monster sneaking up on him but would _certainly_ attract everything in the entire forest.

Then he heard another rustle, closer this time. _Okay, something is _definitely _sneaking up on me_. He moved to stand up quietly, but found, to his surprise, that he couldn't. He appeared to be stuck to the tree.

"What the – oh, _gross_." What he'd thought was moss turned out to be webs. He struggled against it vainly, but it was useless – he was stuck.

"_Protection from Evil, Mirror Image, Invisibility_," Milo casted in quick succession. He vanished abruptly, but five identical illusory copies of himself remained. Classic shell con – _none_ of the visible Milo's were the real one. He hoped he wasn't jumping at shadows, because he'd just burned through most of his daily allotment of spells.

He was mildly satisfied when one of his illusory doubles was abruptly torn to pieces by a shadowy creature. The satisfaction vanished when he realized he was, illusions aside, stuck to a tree being attacked by a monster he couldn't see.

"_Dancing Lights_," he cast, sending four glowing red spheres into the sky above him. On the way up, they briefly illuminated, in red, horrible compound eyes and sharp pincers.

_Great,_ he thought. _Giant spiders._ His invisibility spell would end as soon as he attacked one of them – that is, cast any spell that included them in the area. That ruled out _Glitterdust_ and _Grease_, Milo's two favourite spells, but _not_ creative use of _Levitate_. He could move himself or up to 400lbs of objects vertically, but not horizontally. Generally the spell was used by Wizards to escape, but Milo doubted it would pull him off of the webs.

"_Levitate_," he, and all of his doppelgangers, said. A large fallen tree nearby Milo rose up slowly, ponderously, into the air a foot or two. Another mirror Milo fell to the spider's attack, and Milo started to sweat. Seeing yourself being eaten by a giant spider in dim red light while alone and trapped in a forest is, probably, one of the worst experiences a kid can go through (after visiting the dentist, of course). Milo then carefully reached into his _Belt of Hidden Pockets_ with his right hand (his left was stuck in the webs) and withdrew an old adventurer's staple – fifty feet of silk rope and a grappling hook. The rope was invisible, but would cease to be as soon as it came to be more than ten feet from Milo – and the log was about twelve feet away. Hopefully the spider(s?) wouldn't notice two feet of taut rope appearing from nowhere. He awkwardly tossed the rope at the log – and missed. Milo saw another mirror Milo wink out of existence, presumably attacked by the unseen attacker.

Milo looked at the fallen grappling hook, lying uselessly in the mud, and panicked slightly. _Shouldn't help be coming?_ He thought. _The glowing lights are up above me and everything_. _Wish I prepared _Mage Hand_ this morning._ His plan had been to lift the fallen tree up into the air, and use the grappling hook to pull it over to above the monstrous spider, then drop it. He doubted he'd have time to pull the hook back and throw it again. _Well, nothing for it._

"No sense in us both dying, Mordy," he whispered to his familiar as he pulled him from his belt. "Run back to Hogwarts, see if Hermione or Hannah want you to be their familiar. Good luck, old friend."

_Fear. Despair. Reluctance_. He felt through their bond. Mordenkainen reluctantly crawled out of Milo's grasp, and turned around briefly. _Love,_ he felt, before the magical creature skittered off.

"_GLITTERDUST,_" Milo bellowed. The spider, now covered in glowing dust, was _huge_. The hairy creature's legs spanned at _least_ fifteen feet across. The thing was blinded by the spell, but that would only last for twenty-four seconds. Also, his invisibility was gone, and he was still stuck. He could try burning the webs off of him with _Prestidigitation_ – he might well get set on fire, but at least he'd be free.

"_Prestidigitation_," he said, and a small jet of fire sprung out of his hand at the tree… but nothing happened. Milo was confused, he was _sure_ that would work. (Milo's only experience with webs came from the _Web_ spell, which was used frequently by his arch-nemesis Thamior, and only bear passing resemblance to actual spider silk. Notably, the magical webs burn rapidly when exposed to fire – real spider silk, as Milo would know if he'd put any skill points into Knowledge (Nature), is fireproof).

Only eighteen seconds left. The spider flailed about awkwardly, catching one of Milo's duplicates with one of its eight hairy legs. The duplicate flickered and vanished. All Milo had left was _Silent Image_, _Feather Fall_, _Grease_, and some cantrips.

"_Grease_," he cast at the ground under the spider. The blind spider's eight legs flailed about, trying to get traction on the slippery ground, it's pincers creating an agitated clicking sound. It managed to keep its balance, however – Milo had forgotten that creatures with extra legs got a bonus to stability. He felt, after casting, that it might have been more effective to cast it on _himself_ in case the spider tried to pick him up. Ah, well, twelve seconds to live. Milo frowned, thoughtfully. One effect of _Grease_ was that anyone standing on the slippery surface had to make a Balance check to stay standing, and one effect of Balance was that anyone who took damage had to redo the check or fall. The amount of damage didn't make a difference.

Milo grinned.

"_Acid Splash_," he cast, and a pitifully small orb of acid hit the spider in what its face would be if it had one. _Acid Splash_ was one of the most useless spells in existence – it hurt even less than just punching someone would, or even throwing a small rock – but Milo, as a Conjurer, got an extra Conjuration spell per level, and _Acid Splash _was the _only_ 0th-level Conjuration spell.

The spider fell to the ground, and Milo had six seconds before Glitterdust wore off and the spider could see. Milo gestured at the _Levitated_ log, still floating a little above the ground, and it flew up into the canopy.

"Hey, _ugly_," Milo said, reaching into his belt. "Fear me, for I hold the mighty eldritch power of an eleven-foot pole!"

He gave the fallen spider a light push, and it slid (slightly downhill) along the _Greased_ dirt, until it came to a stop in the slight depression where the log once was.

The spider's vision returned, and as _Glitterdust_ ended, it became stealthy again. The spider's dark brown carapace was all but invisible in the darkness.

Milo dismissed _Levitate_.

He couldn't see what happened, but he _definitely_ felt the 600 XP he got for defeating a Challenge Rating 2 Monstrous Spider solo. Milo sighed. He was somewhat disappointed by that, he thought the spider was worth way more than that. _Well, I guess the spiders here are pushovers compared to the ones back home_, he thought.

When Quirrell, Hagrid and Harry found him, he was whistling softly to himself, stuck to a tree.

"Milo!" Harry shouted, panicked. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, totally fine," he said, though he felt a little woozy.

"Yeh managed ter kill an Acromantula?" Hagrid asked, shocked. "Aragog's not gonna like this. We'd best be leavin'."

"What took you guys so long?" Milo asked dizzily as Hagrid pulled him out of the webs.

"We ran in ter Quirrell, who was in a right state, said we had ter help yeh – but we were delayed by centaurs. Them stargazers took an unnatural dislike to our Defence Professor."

Quirrell appeared to have lost his short-lived courage, and was as pale and quivery as ever.

"Centaurs… in a forest? I figured horse-y types would prefer plains… not planes, mind, 'cause of all the… weird… monsters…" Milo's eyelids felt heavy and his head drooped slightly. He felt sort of numb all over.

"Hagrid? I think something's wrong with Milo," Harry said to the giant.

"What? Can't see anythin' in this ruddy darkness. Professor, could you…?"  
"O-of c-c-c-course, Hagrid," Quirrell stammered. "_L-lumos_."

Quirrell held the tip of his glowing wand over Milo, so Hagrid could investigate closer. It was hard to tell, because of the poor lighting and Milo's black uniform, but there was a patch that seemed slightly darker than the rest.

"Oh, no," Hagrid gasped. "He's bin bit."

Milo frowned. He definitely didn't remember that happening. In fact, he was all but certain the acromantula never got even _close_ to close enough to him to bite him.

"Nah, hairy brute never touched me," Milo said.

"H-he's delusional from the v-venom," Quirrell said. "I f-f-feel terrible, he w-was my r-r-responsibility."

"You're stuttering," Milo said.

"I-I a-always st-st-stutter," Quirrell stuttered.

"We need ter get 'im back to the castle," Hagrid said. "Acromantula venom can be lethal."

"Poison?" Milo asked, and reached for his belt. He kept antitoxin in one of the pockets… which one? It seemed like it should be important, but he was having difficulty focussing.

"I-I'll take him," Quirrell said. "You c-c-can keep s-searching."

"Right. Harry, you'd best be goin' with 'em," the giant said to the Boy-Who-Lived.

"But, then you'd be out there alone," Harry protested. "Are you sure you'd be okay?"  
"Nah, I got Fang. Don't worry yerself about me."

"_Wingardium Leviosa_," Quirrell said, casting the Hovering Charm on Milo, who was starting to lose consciousness. Quirrell led Harry through the forest back towards the castle.

"Shouldn't we hurry, Professor?" Harry asked anxiously. "Milo looks really sick."

Quirrell shook his head.

"N-not in a f-forest," he said, "and c-certainly n-not in a f-forest in the d-d-dark. W-we could tr-trip in j-just about a-anything, and th-then we would take e-even longer."

Harry supposed Quirrell had a point, but their leisurely pace seemed torturously slow to him.

Harry, frightened by the forest, gradually drifted closer to Quirrell as they walked. The Defence Professor was a bit spineless, but he seemed pretty competent with magic – and he _had_ faced down vampires at some point. However, as Harry drew nearer, his scar began to ache abruptly. He doubled over, clutching at his forehead. When his hand drew away, there was blood on it.

"A-are you al-alright, boy?" Quirrell asked.

"Uh," Harry said as the pain gradually decreased. "Yeah… yeah, I'm fine. It's nothing. It just… my scar hurts sometimes, usually around Snape."

"Th-the scar – I understand y-you got i-it from the D-d-d-dark - from H-H-He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

"Yes, Professor. That's what I'm told, at least."

Quirrell frowned.

"Th-then I'd s-s-suggest you b-be wary around the Potions M-M-Master," he said. "H-He used to be a D-D-D-Death Eater, I-I'm told. A-and this d-d-detention _was_ h-his idea."

Harry was surprised. He didn't like Snape, but he hadn't realized that the greasy professor had been one of Voldemort's followers. Maybe he was going to try and finish the job that the dark wizard had started? Perhaps it was Harry, and not Milo, who had been meant to be attacked by the giant spider. Good thing Quirrell had been there.

As they continued to walk, Milo's condition worsened. He started babbling incoherently about his pockets and Quirrell's stutter, before passing out entirely.

o—o—o—o

Mordy scampered as fast as he could across the cold stone floor (which, considering he was a rat (more or less), was not terribly fast) towards the Gryffindor Common Rooms.

Everything was going swell until he encountered The Fell Beast. The Fell Beast gave a cry of rage that would haunt Mordy's dreams for weeks and charged. Mordy tried to dodge, but the cat was too fast – its claws left a bloody gash down the rodent's back. It would have been enough to kill a lesser rat, but Mordy, as a familiar, had more hit points – barely. He had half as many as his master, who unfortunately decided to dump Constitution at character creation.

Mordy climbed a suit of armour (rusty, the Gryffindors hadn't got this far yet) to escape the dreadful claws. He tensed, and jumped over to the next suit, barely catching hold of the helmet's visor. The Fell Beast, meanwhile, sat on the ground, debating what to do. He saw her tense up, ready to pounce, and Mordenkainen started to wish, heartily, that his master had taken the Improved Familiar feat.

As the Fell Beast jumped, Mordy let go of the visor and landed on the ground painfully. The cat's collision with the armour toppled it to the ground, and it spread in pieces over the hallway. Mordy evaded them easily (Improved Evasion could be handy) and sprinted as the cat regained her senses. _Terror, Panic, Despair,_ he felt through the empathic bond with his master.

He rounded the last corner before the common room, and finally reached the portrait. The Fell Beast was hot on his heels.

"Password?" asked the Fat Lady.

"Squeak," said Mordenkainen.

"Correct," said the painting, and swung open. He barely made it through the portal as the painting swung shut. He could clearly hear the irritated sound of the Fell Beast hissing in frustration on the other side. There was a promise of pain and death in that hiss. _Victory, Satisfaction, Triumph_, he felt through the bond with his master.

In the common room, he saw Scabbers eating some crumbs off the floor.

"Squeak!" he said to the ugly rat.

"Squeak?" the appropriately-named Scabbers asked, surprised.

"Squeak, squeak-squeak squeak!" Mordy said urgently. _Fear, Pain, Dizziness_, he felt. _Oh, no,_ Mordy thought. _Has he been poisoned? Is he sick?_ Mordy concentrated and tried to send strength through the bond. Every species of familiar had some sort of special power – and rats could convey a measure of resistance against things like sickness in their master, as long as they were within a mile.

"Squeak," Scabbers said, and gave the rat-equivalent of a shrug. Mordy gave Scabbers a solid kick to the stomach, and ran into the girls' dorms. He had to find the one with the nice teeth. She was smart, she would understand, she would help. The problem was that the humans all looked alike to him.

"Squeak?" he said hopefully to one, who woke up, looked at Mordy, and screamed. _Wrong one,_ he thought.

"There's a _rat_ in my room!" she cried. "Lavender! Wake up!" another girl stirred irritably.

"What?" Lavender asked sleepily. "Ack!" she shrieked. The other humans all stood up out of bed while Mordy looked at them each, carefully, trying to figure out which was the one with nice teeth. The fact that they all were screaming made it easier.

"Hey, it's that rat Milo carries around all the time," said one (Hannah, in case you were wondering, not that Mordy knew that).

"What's he doing in _here_?" Lavender asked. Mordy gave the rat equivalent of a sigh. _This wouldn't happen if I were a mouse_, he thought. _Everyone_ loves_ mice_.

"Squeak!" he said urgently.

"He looks kinda distressed," Lavender said. "Wait, is he bleeding?"

"He should be with Milo," said one. "And Milo's out in the Forbidden Forest…" she frowned. "We need to find McGonagall, immediately. Milo could be in trouble – and this poor rat looks half dead." As she spoke, he could see her teeth – good, rat-like teeth. _Yes, this is the one_, he thought as his hit points slipped into the negatives.

o—o—o—o

_This is taking way too long_, Harry thought. _Is Quirrell lost?_

"Sh-should be just past the next few t-trees," Quirrell reassured him. "Th-then we'll b-be in open t-t-territory and can sp-sprint."

Harry was skeptical. He was fairly certain they were going roughly perpendicular to the castle, but then again, he'd never been in a forest before – it was more than likely that his sense of direction was misleading him. Still, he felt that the return journey should be faster than the trip out – they were taking all kinds of twists and turns while searching for the mysterious unicorn-killer – but it had been at least that long since they'd left Hagrid.

Harry gripped his wand, for all the good that it would do. His scar still ached somewhat, so he wondered if Snape was around, creeping in the bushes.

"Hello?" he heard a familiar voice call out. "Hagrid? Harry? Quirrell? Milo?"

"Headmaster!" Harry shouted. "We're over here!"

Quirrell, Harry noticed, looked briefly frustrated before regaining his composure.

"Wait there!" Dumbledore shouted. As the grandfatherly man approached, Harry could see a glowing red light coming closer. It looked like fire, but it felt oddly soothing. Quirrell shielded his eyes from the bright light, but Harry felt fine

"H-Headmaster, th-the boy was b-bit by an acromantula," Quirrell said to Dumbledore, who had a red, glowing bird of some sort perched on his shoulder. "H-he's been p-poisoned."

Dumbledore acted quickly.

"Quirrell, take Mr. Potter back to the Gryffindor common room. Fawkes," Dumbledore said to the bird, "take me and Milo to the hospital wing." There was a burst of red flame, and Dumbledore and Harry's friend vanished with a small puff of smoke.

"Sh-showy, b-b-but effective," Quirrell noted.

o—o—o—o

Milo awoke, staring at an all-too familiar ceiling.

"I'm in the hospital again, aren't I?" he asked weakly.

"I'm sorry to say that you're correct, young man," Madam Pomfrey said. "And, don't take this the wrong way, but it would be nice to go five days without seeing you."

Milo laughed weakly.

"You'll note," she continued, "that we left you with your magical belt this time. Your… pet… is on the bed next to you."

Mordenkainen was lying on the next bed over, wrapped in bandages.

"What happened to him?" Milo asked, his voice full of concern.

"He was attempting to get the Gryffindor common room, we believe, and was attacked by Ms. Norris. He almost died, but Hermione got him here in time, bless her. His appearance was how Dumbledore knew to go looking for you."

Milo frowned.

"Why did I need rescuing, again? It all seems so foggy."

"You were bitten by an acromantula, a highly intelligent and extremely dangerous magical spider-like monster. You're lucky to be alive. It's the sort of thing I'd think you'd remember," she said. The bite wound had, largely, healed mysteriously during the night, much like his injuries had when he'd first arrived. The venom's effects, however, lingered somewhat.

"No," Milo said. "I definitely _don't_ remember that. There was a spider, and I dropped a tree on it, but it never touched me."

"You're still very sick, and I'm sure it all happened very fast. I wouldn't worry about it," she said, while pondering his words. _He thinks he dropped a _tree _on it? _Pomfrey thought._ He _is _delirious_.

"How long was I out?" he asked.

"A day and a half, roughly. We managed to stabilize you, but it took until this morning for Snape to brew the antidote," she said. "He worked all night, you know."

Milo frowned. That didn't add up at all. Something weird was going on.


	6. Chapter 6: Crime Scene Investigation

Author's Notes: Thank you to all of the nice reviews I've gotten (they make my day), and to Blinded in a Bolthole in particular for helping me rewrite my summary.

Don't forget that you can check my Author page for a link to Milo's character sheet and the free Fantasy, Sci-Fi, and/or Modern RPG, Semiautomagic, that I'm working on.

o—o—o—o

Throughout the day, several Gryffindor wellwishers came to visit Milo in the hospital wing. Apparently, word had spread of his run-in with the acromantula, and the rumours had quickly gotten out of hand.

"We heard you fought off a horde of giant spiders, mate —" said one of the Weasley twins (Milo decided, for convenience's sake, to call him George).

"— and save a beautiful unicorn princess —" said Fred (maybe).

"— which is unusual, because unicorns tend to be male —"

"— and also managed to rescue Professor Quirrell —"

"— while growing increasingly weak from spider venom —"

"— defeated You-Know-Who for good —"

"— became king of the Goblins —"

"— found a Philosopher's Stone —"

"— so now, you can live forever —"

"— discovered a _thirteenth _use for dragon's blood —"

"— _and_ that you're still an available bachelor —"

"— but maybe not for long, based on the rate these stories are spreading."

Following the conversation was somewhat dizzying, but sort of entertaining as well. Hannah and Lavender dropped by with candy (though the people in this strange land called them "sweets," which Milo supposed was generally accurate, with the exception of several trillion flavours of the Every-Flavoured Beans), and Lavender apologized for her behaviour during detention. Milo appreciated the gesture, but was somewhat suspicious of wizarding candy as a whole – he remembered Harry's chocolate frogs trying to escape back on the train (Milo shuddered at the thought of that mechanical monstrosity) and the more unpleasant flavours of the every-flavoured beans.

Hermione, naturally, brought him copies of her class notes from the ones he missed (Milo copied them all into a notebook with _Amanuensis_ (an obscure 0th-level spell that copies text rapidly) and then read it with _Scholar's Touch_ (an invaluable 1st-level spell that reads an entire _book_ (and not, say, a stack of loose-leaf) in a few seconds)).

Ron approached somewhat sheepishly to apologise for not going to the forest with him and Harry, but said that it was really for the best because he was absolutely useless around spiders and would probably just have gotten in the way. Milo forgave him, and they played a game of Wizard's chess, which was just like regular chess except the pieces were apparently intelligent. It really changes the game when, instead of sending a rook forwards to be sacrificed, you're sending up an old, tired wooden soldier begging to be allowed to live and return to his family (he had a pair of pawns to take care of, after all), yet nonetheless resigned to his fate. Ron won, of course, because Milo couldn't remember ever playing chess before. He knew the rules, oddly, but had no memories of an actual game — probably because he was still cut off from any of his backstory not yet explicitly stated.

While he recovered from his ability score damage, Milo tried to solve the puzzle of the spider bite. There was, without a doubt, an ugly injury caused by a fang in his side. However, Milo was _absolutely certain_ that he hadn't been bitten. Even if the spider tried, Milo had _Mage Armour _and _Protection from Evil,_ which gave him a net boost of +6 to Armour Class, assuming the spider was evil (which it totally was). It was improbable, though not impossible, that the spider had hit him in one attack. But between being blinded and off-balance from Milo's magic, he really doubted the acromantula had a chance — unless he'd been bit _before_ Milo started his attack. But _that_ was impossible because Milo was invisible, and had illusions up besides…

He frowned. _No, it _really_ can't have been before I became visible, and _probably_ wasn't when the spider was blinded_. Milo could account for the spider's actions during the duration based on the number of mirror images it destroyed and the number of spells he cast.

_This doesn't add up at all_.

And then there was the matter of Snape. If Snape had been trying to kill him, why did he brew an antidote? Was it really some sort of terrible, slow-acting poison that would kill Milo over the course of weeks, making it look natural? But why bother — he could have just left Milo to succumb to the acromantula venom.

No, there must be another player at work here. Snape was evil, sure — but he wasn't actively trying to kill Milo. He might not even have realized, yet, that Milo was a threat to him.

"Hey, mate," Harry said, breaking him out of his thought process. Milo hadn't noticed the boy entering the room. "Sorry I didn't come earlier, we had broomstick lessons — it turns out I can fly really well! I don't have any idea where the skill came from, I was always rubbish at P.E. — and anyway, Draco must still be mad from that time on the train, so he stole Nev's Remembrall (poor fellow just got out of St. Mungo's) and ran off with it. Anyway, I'm rambling. The point is, I got it back, but McGonagall saw and _guess what_ — I'm on the Quidditch team!"

"What, the game with six pointless players and one PC?" Milo asked.

"Yeah! And I'm the Seeker!" Harry said excitedly. "Hermione's upset because it's against the rules and thinks McGonagall shouldn't have made an exception, but Ron is beside himself."

"That's pretty cool. Bet you'll catch the Snitch — like, really. Ten gold pieces — _Galleons_, whatever — that you win the first match by the skin of your teeth."

"You're on, but I probably won't be able to pay you for a while when I lose. My money's all in Gringott's," Harry said.

"Oh?" Milo asked. "What's Gringott's?"

"It's this big underground thing, full of dragons and run by goblins," Harry said. "I was there once, it was actually kinda scary."

Milo's ears literally perked up upon hearing this (he was one-sixty-fourth elf).

"Goblins got your gold, eh?" he asked. "Well, well, well. Sounds to me like we have a dungeon crawl in our future," he said excitedly.

"What's a dungeon crawl? Is that some sort of dance? Only, I've never danced before," Harry said.

"What? No. It's where you go into a big underground thing, full of dragons and run by goblins, and come out with piles and piles of gold," Milo explained.

"Oh, I've done that already," Harry commented. "Though I left most of the gold behind for later."

"You— you did _what_ now? I think you're not really getting into the spirit of the thing."

"Well, I was with Hagrid, and he only let me take so much out—"

"Oh, that makes sense. Higher level character, he probably did most of the work to get there. Still, try to argue for an even split next time. If you play your cards right, you could wind up way ahead of your WBL," Milo said.

"My what?" Harry asked.

"Wealth By Level," Milo said. "It's the average amount of total money, in cash, magic items, fortresses, that kind of thing, that a person has based on their level. So like, a powerful wizard can use a _Broom of Flying _to clean his floors with because he can afford twelve, while a lower-level wizard couldn't even get one."

"Oh," said Harry. "Here, we just call it capitalism."

"Weird. So, what's the deal with this Hagrid guy?"

"Oh, he's a giant, he's my friend — he took me from the Dursleys — and lives in a hut outside the castle. Takes care of the grounds and things. He actually sent me a letter inviting me down to visit him," Harry said. "I think I'll head down later this evening."

"Huh. So tell me, did you notice anything weird about Quirrell's stutter last night?" Milo asked.

"You mean, two nights ago?" Harry asked. Milo nodded, he was still sort of disoriented from sleeping all day. Harry frowned. "I can't swear to it, but I _think_, just briefly, he was talking normally. Maybe he was so frightened that he sort of stuttered so far he wrapped around and came back the other side?"

"Yeah, maybe," Milo said. There was something he was missing, he was _sure_ of it. His forehead wrinkled with deep thought. "Okay, hang on. Describe Quirrell to me, and pretend I've never met him before, okay?"

Harry looked at Milo like he'd gone crazy (Milo was used to that look by now) but complied. Quirrell: had a verbal tic (one) wore a weird turban (two) was completely spineless (three) but could apparently summon courage when necessary (four!) and emanated an odour of garlic (_five_).

"Oh my gods," Milo said. "How could I have been so stupid?"

"What, what is it?" Harry asked.

"Five adjectives! _Nobody_ gets five adjectives so soon after meeting them!"

"What?" Harry asked.

"It's just like on the train, remember? When I told you to write down everyone who could be described with more than two adjectives? It's why we go on adventures with Ron and not Dean or Seamus. The more unique a person is, the more important they are."

"So, what does this mean?" Harry asked. He was beginning to feel that Milo's sanity was much like Quirrell's stutter: he went so far through insane that he came out the other side, and started making sense. Well, kind of.

"It means Quirrell is big news, but it's too early to say yet which side he's on. I feel like there's something I should be _remembering_ but just can't."

"You mean, like your parents?" Harry asked.

"No, like something someone said in passing but I didn't write down. Can I see your notes?" Milo asked.

"What, you mean, like from Herbology?"

"No, not those. The adventure notes."

"Oh, sure," Harry said, pulling the lists that Milo had asked him to write from his bag. There were the lists of mysterious things people had said, of unexplained events, and of important characters. Milo pointed out _Quidditch: Seeker is for PCs_ with some satisfaction, but otherwise the search was fruitless.

"Ah, well. It was worth a shot. Maybe we'll hear something that'll make all of this make sense," Milo sighed. "Until then, we'll just keep listening closely."

His next visitor after Harry left was quite unexpected.

"So, we meet again, Malfoy." Milo said coolly.

"Indeed, we do at that," Malfoy sneered. "I just came to see if you were really as weak, injured, helpless, and alone as they say."

"Oh, are you threatening me? Is this really happening? Because as I remember, I've got you two for two, Slytherin."

"Not a threat, no, not at all," Malfoy said, and grinned. "Just thought I'd drop by, say hi, wish you well and tell you _I know what you're up to_."

"What I'm — I mean, you don't know anything. _Fool_." Milo said, but quietly his mind raced. What _was_ Milo up to? Not much, really. Just sort of blundering through encounter after encounter, so far; brute forcing his way through problems with magic. But active plotting? Not so much.

"And more importantly, my _father _knows," Malfoy said. "And my father controls the Wizengamot." Malfoy grinned. "I'd keep an eye on the morning paper, if I were you." He moved to leave, but paused. "Fortunately," he added, "I am not you." He then walked off, whistling softly to himself.

"Well, that was cryptic," Milo mused to himself. "I'm starting to think I should maybe figure out what in Baator is going on before I wind up there."

To do that, he had to go to the library. To do _that_, he had to get out of this accursed hospital bed — but that wouldn't happen until he had healed to Madam Pomfrey's satisfaction.

"New plan," he said. "Bring the library to me."

o—o—o—o

"He asked for _what_?" McGonagall asked.

"He wants to borrow half the library," Madam Pince, the librarian, said calmly. "Said he didn't want to get behind in his studies, and that he would just start at A and work his way down to Z"

"Don't we have rules against this?" McGonagall asked.

"Well, frankly, it's never come up," said the librarian. "Until Hermione Granger, nobody ever took out more than a book or two at a time. Most students only read when they absolutely have no other option, and even then, generally only the Ravenclaws."

"Well… I feel we have no choice but to allow it, save, obviously, those in the Forbidden Section," McGonagall said. "Lest we encourage rule-breaking among the students by example. I'll allocate a few first-year Gryffindors to help transfer the books, I suppose. You owe me a favour, though, Irma."

The professors had started using Gryffindor's detention hours as the basis of a crude barter system. Snape had been selling them at a premium price, mostly to get out of his scheduled time patrolling the corridors of Hogwarts and dealing with Peeves. They were then re-sold between the professors in exchange for favours, assistance, and occasionally even money (the going rate three knuts per hour per student, well below what minimum wage would be if the wizarding world had a minimum wage). The students, of course, knew nothing of this.

o—o—o—o

"_Scholar's Touch,_" Milo cast, and tapped a handful of books. He could read four per casting, and could cast the spell nine times. Mordy's head perked up as his brain, too, was flooded with information. Milo tossed the books into a rapidly-growing Finished pile, and reached for the top few books in the To Read pile, which was less of a pile and more of a small mountain. "_Scholar's Touch, Scholar's Touch, Scholar's Touch, Scholar's Touch…_"

o—o—o—o

The next morning, Milo was finally allowed out of the hospital wing. He was still under strict orders not to exert himself, and to avoid any undue stress. As a result, he was freed from the gruelling labour that the teachers were forcing the Gryffindors to undertake by way of detention. He walked, somewhat gingerly, down to the Great Hall for breakfast. As he entered, he made sure to affect an exaggerated limp and weak pace. He staggered towards the Hall, and pushed open the massive double-doors dramatically. He was deliberately a few minutes late, ensuring that the enormous chamber was more-or-less full, thus maximizing the impact.

o—o—o—o

Conversation in the room dimmed to a murmur as he walked silently down to the Gryffindor table, and sat down between Hannah and Ron.

"Hey," he said casually. "I miss anything?"

"Nice entrance," said Ron. "Though I think you were missing some sort of dramatic announcement, like 'that dragon won't bother us again anytime soon,' or possibly, 'the time has come.'"

"Everyone's a critic," Milo sighed.

"Don't be rude, Ron," Hannah said. "Or should I call Lavender back to have another little _talk_ with you?"

Ron's face paled, and he fell silent. Hermione, Milo noticed, was very pointedly not speaking with Ron. Milo shrugged. The intricacies of most social interaction were lost on him, and they seemed largely pointless anyways.

"I want everyone to keep a careful eye on Malfoy," Milo said. "He's up to something, but I'm not sure what, yet."

"Sure thing, mate." Ron said as the owl post arrived. Milo questioned the hygiene of having a flock of owls flying in during breakfast every morning, but as he always ate from his perfectly-sterile _Everlasting Rations_ anyways, he didn't mention anything. Also, _owls_? Seriously?

A particularly large package was delivered to Harry, carried by three owls working in unison.  
"Oh, that reminds me," he said to the Gryffindors. "Anyone got a copy of the _Daily Profit_ — sorry, _Prophet_ — that I can borrow?" A flood of papers were offered to him immediately. Milo grinned. Celebrity had its perks, apparently. His newfound fame for defeating the acromantula apparently overshadowed the hatred for his losing 110 house points.

"Thanks," he said, grabbing one from some random NPC.

He looked at the cover, and nearly dropped it in surprise. Not because of the headlines, or even the content of the newspaper at all, but because the photo on the cover — of some smiling blond wizard being awarded a medal — was _moving_. Someone out there saw fit to cast _some_ kind of spell, Milo wasn't even sure what would do this (some sort of Illusion, perhaps?) on _every single one _of these papers. Or, gods forbid, they were all magic items, each costing XP. If each newspaper cost even one Experience Point to make… Milo shuddered, imagining the soul-sucking factory needed to produce these tabloids, where wizards were dragged in _en masse_ to be drained of the essence of their power, left a shallow husk of themselves.

Milo shook his head to clear his mind, and started scanning the headlines. _Gringott's Break-in Still Unsolved…_ Nope, not that. _Lockhart Saves Australia_. Unrelated. _Moody Stops Bicycle Theft, Takes No Prisoners. _Nothing to do with him, certainly. _Harry Potter Biography Hits Shelves_, _Shelves Hit Back_. Apparently Flourish and Botts had attracted a malicious poltergeist. _Nimbus Two Thousand Named Official Broom of Chudley Cannons_. Yawn.

"Oh, by the way," Milo said as he read. "I found out what You-Know-Who is after."

"What?" Ron spluttered. "How?"

"Well, I cross-referenced everything on Harry's list with everything in the Hogwarts Library relating to extending one's life," he said. "And the Philospher's Stone is the only thing that appears in each. Nicolas Flamel was on the back of Dumbledore's chocolate frog card — which were invented in 1983 — back on the Hogwarts Express, which was, incidentally built in 1936, and he's the creator of the Stone."

"Why does it matter that he was on the card?" Harry asked.

"Well, something as important as the motives of the main villain would have been mentioned at least once by now by way of foreshadowing," Milo said. "Hells, you've probably been in the same room as the thing at least once and didn't even know it."

"Oh," said Hermione, sounding disappointed. "Here I'd hoped, against all reason, perhaps, that you'd finally found an ounce of sanity and logic."

"Mark my words," Milo said. "He's after the Stone — or he's a vampire."

"Well, if it's the stone he wants, we don't have anything to worry about," Hermione said. "Nicolas Flamel has it, and he's seven hundred years old. He's been able to keep it safe all this time, he must be pretty good at it. I mean, _surely_ You-Know-Who isn't the first person to want to be immortal? I bet Flamel has to fight off dark wizards every other fortnight."

"Well, I'm glad that's settled," Harry said, cutting off Milo's reply. "Wait till you guys see what I got in the mail."

o—o—o—o

Harry was so excited he could hardly speak as they hurried to the Gryffindor common room to open his package. He skipped up the stairs two at a time, and blurted out the password to the Fat Lady so quickly he had to repeat it twice before she was satisfied.

"It's a _Nimbus Two Thousand_!" Harry exclaimed.

"Don't be daft, mate," Ron said. "Anyone who owned a _Nimbus_ wouldn't just _give_ it away."

"Oh, a broomstick," said Hermione. "Hooray."

"I had one of those, once," Milo said. "Stole it from a Death Eater I defeated. Dumbledore took it, though."

"Course you did, mate," said Ron condescendingly. "Course you did."

"Hey, Harry," Milo said. "Tell me something: why were you so excited to get this broomstick?"

"It's a _Nimbus Two Thousand_!" Harry said, practically shouting. "They're top-line racing brooms!"

"Right, right, but _how do you know that_?" Milo asked.

Harry frowned.

"I saw one in the shop in Diagon Alley," he said. "There was a crowd around it and everything."

"Ron, correct me if I'm wrong," Milo said to the redheaded boy, "but aren't there a number of top-line racing brooms out there?"

"Well, yeah, but the _Nimbus_ is the _best_ one," said Ron.

"Sure, but still — there'd be ones that are used by, I dunno, national sports teams that still far outstrip those used by Hogwarts players, and are maybe _almost_ as good as the _Nimbus_?"

"Well, sure," Ron said thoughtfully. "There's the _Comet Four-Eighty_ and it's hush-hush, but apparently Firebolt is working on something really fantastic."

"Yet none of those," Milo said with satisfaction, "were on Harry's list of notable items."

The four fell silent.

"There's a perfectly rational explanation," Hermione said. "McGonagall took Harry to Diagon Alley, remember? She must have seen it there."

Milo laughed.

"Of _course_ there's a rational explanation, if you look closely enough. Still bears thinking about. Which is why we need to worry about this Philosopher's Stone. It just keeps popping up."

"When I was in Diagon Alley," Harry said excitedly. "Hagrid took us to a mysterious vault in Gringott's — and all that was in it was a tiny package! I bet it was the Stone!"

"Oh, come on," Hermione said. "That's just ridiculous — if it were the Stone, Dumbledore would have gone himself, surely. He's the only one Voldemort was ever scared of."

"But Gringott's was broken into that same day, but they didn't find what they were looking for!" Harry continued. "Remember, it was all over the news? They didn't find it — because Hagrid took it to Hogwarts!"

"Or, maybe they just couldn't find it — or they were after something else — or Gringott's vault security, famed in the world, it employs _dragons_ after all, was too good for them," said Hermione with growing frustration.

"Wait, wait, wait — is Gringott's some sort of _bank_?" Milo asked.

All three of them gave him the usual look.

"If the security is so good, why is it overrun with goblins?" Milo asked.

"The goblins _are_ the security, duffer," Ron said. "They run the bank. It's their bank. A goblin bank."

Milo couldn't take it anymore.

"This world is_ insane_!" he shouted. "_GOBLINS_ running a _bank_? _Dragon_hide gloves? _TWELVE uses of dragon's blood?_ What are they, raised in farms? Elves — cooking, as servants? _Wands_? There's only one person in the entire _country_ who makes your wands and he's just allowed to wander about! What if he trips and dies, or some evil git — what the Hells is a _git_, anyways — comes by and knifes him? _What will you all do then_? Also, _broomsticks_? If you're all wizards, why don't you just cast _Fly_? By Bigby, _why_ don't you just cast _Fly_? You have _infinite spells per day_ and you let _goblins _guard your gold! With _dragons_! More dragons! You have _centaurs_ living in your forest — Centaurs. The only _possible_ reason having four legs with hooves would be an advantage is if you were in the open plains! It's like... it's like someone who had only vaguely heard of _real_ magic got all the _words_ right but their meanings completely wrong!"

"You about done, mate?" Ron asked. "'Cause our magic is just as real. You see us using it every day, it's just a bit different from what you're used to."

"Yeah, I'm done. So. Your resident Dark Wizard is trying to get the Philosopher's Stone. The Stone is in Hogwarts. Dumbledore is guarding the stone, apparently, but just _being_ in Hogwarts isn't guarding — _guarding_ is guarding. He'd have to be sitting next to the thing, all day, every day, for it to be really safe. Seeing as how the other professors, perhaps with the exception of McGonagall, are either completely useless, dead, or downright evil, that leaves us."

"Leaves us for what?" Ron asked.

"When Voldemort — oh, shut up, Ron, it's just a name — makes his move, we have to stop him," Harry said quietly. "He killed my parents. He killed a lot of people's parents. We need a plan, though."

"I'd just like everyone to realize you have nothing remotely concrete," Hermione said. "The world doesn't work that way. You-Know-Who is _dead_. Flamel has the Philosopher's Stone. _Professor_ Snape is stern and sometimes maybe a little unfair, but he's not _evil_. Until you can prove even _one_ of those statements is wrong, you can do this without me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have Transfiguration homework — as do you, in point of fact." With that, she stood up and strode out of the room.

"You know, she has a point," Ron said. "What we've got _is_ a bit thin. Mind, Snape's evilness is pretty self-evident."

"Right, well, I think _someone_ tried to kill me the other night," Milo said. "And even if I can't remember it happening, I'll find out how. Tomorrow, when I've got my spells back, I'm going back to the Forbidden Forest. Something's not right."

"The forest with the giant spiders, the werewolves — and I _know_ it's not a full moon — the human-hating centaurs, the... that's actually all that I can remember, but I'm sure it's just the beginning," Ron said.

"Unicorns," Harry said. "What's killing the unicorns? And why?"

"Uh," Milo said. "I don't know, yet." Even _Scholar's Touch_ had limitations — each one allowed him to read one book per level (so, four books, for those keeping score back home) but he could only cast so many per day. He resolved that from here on out, whenever he had extra spells remaining before going to bed, he was going to burn them on _Scholar's Touch_ until he'd learned everything there was to know about this zany campaign setting. _Seriously_, he thought. _This place makes Eberron look as familiar as Faerun_. "But I can find out tomorrow — or maybe the day after."

"Right. Once you can prove it was Snape who tried to kill you — and come on, it totally was — then Hermione can help, and she probably already knows loads about unicorns and things we don't even know to look for," Harry said. "Meanwhile, Ron and I are going to try to find out everything we can about the Philosopher's Stone and Nicolas Flamel. He's a seven-hundred year-old wizard, right? I bet he's really famous. "

"Yeah," Ron said. "He was like, the Dumbledore of his day. I heard he's the one who trained Dumbledore — he might well be the most powerful wizard alive, really, if he hadn't retired. That kind of takes you out of the running, retirement."

o—o—o—o

Fortunately, the next day was Saturday, so Milo didn't have to worry about using his spells to bluff his way through classes. Instead, he prepared the same combat spells he did on the first trip into the forest, and set out. This time, there would be nobody to rescue him — so he went in the middle of the day, protected by his invisible _Mage Armour_.

"_Locate Object_: acromantula's corpse," he cast, swapping out _Mirror Image_. As far as the magic was concerned, a dead creature was an object (unless it was undead, of course).

"You know," he muttered to himself as he followed the path set out by the spell. "I think I've realized why I'm having so much trouble here. I was really designed to neutralize a horde of enemies so that Zook and the others can take them out with pointy sticks and things," he said. "My spell selection was never designed to win fights solo." Now that he thought about it, Milo realized he didn't have anything actually, you know, _lethal_. Just sort of annoying. "The other thing about this crazy world," he complained. "There's no _Wizards_. I mean, there's these _people_ here who _call_ themselves wizards, but they're really more like Warlocks gone wrong. But no _proper_ Wizards." No Wizards meant he couldn't copy spells for any amount of money, which is why his selection was still so limited. Every level, all Wizards learned a mere two new spells from independent research.

"It's all so unfair," he muttered. "I have to re-invent the wheel every time I want to learn a new spell. Ah, here we are."

He turned a somewhat familiar corner and felt the angle of _Locate Object_ change suddenly, meaning he was close. It all looked so different during the day, but there was the web-covered tree. He couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it during the night, there really was a _lot_ of web everywhere.

He cautiously approached the remains of the monstrous spider. Were Milo a normal human, he would be repulsed by the smell — but, Milo's nose, like those of everyone from his world, only picks up on plot-sensitive scents. The rest are just _assumed_ to be there, but not explicitly mentioned.

If Milo had thought that the acromantula would look less frightening during the light, he would have been wrong. It was _enormous_. His estimate of fifteen feet across was wrong — it was closer to twenty-five. Milo shuddered.

"A-ha!" he exclaimed. "That thing is _way_ too large to have been killed by that little log I dropped," he said. The log weighed at most 400lbs, because that was as much as _Levitate_ could carry, and only dropped twenty feet (the furthest he could raise it in the one round he had to do so) meaning it only did 2d6 damage. _That's twelve, max, and if acromantulas (acromantulae?) are anything like the monstrous spiders back home then it should have had twenty-four hit points, minimum, but probably closer to fifty-two._ "It should have shrugged that off and bitten me in half."

Milo frowned. There was more, too. Even _if_ the spider was only CR 2, he should have had somewhere in the vicinity of 22 hp – and Milo only did, _maximum_, 12 damage. _Actually_, he added mentally, _15 with _Acid Splash. _But the odds of that happening are slim – only one in 108._ He shouldn't have been able to even kill a CR 1 monstrous spider with all he did. And from what the people around here had been saying, acromantulas were dangerous. Really dangerous. From that alone, he would have thought that they were Challenge Rating four or more.

He moved closer to the body to investigate. It was, clearly, quite dead.

"So what happened to you, big guy? Were you already wounded? _Expose the Dead_," he cast, switching out _Levitate_. This was a spell the good people of Eberron had developed, but it had been carried to Milo's world by powerful spellcasters using _Planeshift_. He'd never actually seen it done before, and had no idea how to cast it, but Spontaneous Divination let him do it anyways. Best ability _ever_. Anyways — the spell gave him a gigantic bonus to searching crime scenes, _and_ let him discover clues as if he were a trained professional. Some quick math told him that he'd have to be able to beat DC fifteen (easy, given his massive Intelligence and the bonus from the spell) to find a clue, if there was one, and then twenty-one to figure out any information from it. He frowned. It would take a twenty-six to find out everything he needed, and that was beyond him without more magical assistance.

"_Master's Touch,_ _Instant Search_," he cast, this time in favour of _Grease _and _Glitterdust_, respectively. He was starting to worry that he would run out of spells before he was done. The spells together gave him another +6 to search.

Details of the spider's corpse, more than he really wanted to know in point of fact, suddenly appeared in his mind as if he'd diligently investigated the body.

Aside from a few long-since healed scars on its side and face, a sprained ankle (_do spiders have ankles?_), minor acid burning and 400lb of tree sitting on its back, the spider was in perfect health – except that it was missing one of its fangs.

"Well," Milo said triumphantly. "This explains everythi– wait a minute, no it doesn't. Can acromantulas shoot fangs? Why didn't I feel it? I _know_ I didn't take any damage." Milo was aware, at any given time, how many hit points he had. "Well," he said. "You weren't a wounded high-CR monster, or I would have found the other injuries. You weren't CR 1, or I would have gotten less Experience Points. You weren't weak to acid, or there would be more serious burns. There is only one _possible_ conclusion... and it changes _everything_," he said, pausing dramatically for the scene to change.


	7. Chapter 7: The Potions Master

"I'm just sad I didn't get to see his face when he read the _Daily Prophet_," Malfoy sniggered. Several Slytherins laughed as well. "I'll bet he was like, '_BWAH,_'" he said, making a face that would match '_BWAH'_ rather well, in fact.

"Teach him to mess with Slytherin in our own dungeon," Crabbe (or Goyle) said.

"Yeah, shows him to mess with us in our own classroom," said Goyle (or Crabbe).

"And for that time on the train," Crabbe (probably) added.

"Yeah, that time on the Hogwarts express," said Goyle.

"Yeah, and for when Potter got the Remembrall from you," Crabbed continued.

"Yeah, for that time he showed you up in flying in front of everyone and got Longbottom's Remembrall," Goyle clarified.

"And then when he got put on the Quidditch team even though first years aren't allowed."

"Yeah, for when the teachers were so impressed at how great his flying was that he became the youngest Seeker in a century," said Goyle.

"In future," Malfoy said coldly, "could you two _not_ list out every time they've shown us up whenever I have a victory?"

"Sorry boss," said Crabbe. "It's just that they have so, you know, many of them."

"Yeah boss," said Goyle. "They have so many, and they're real easy to remember, because everyone always talks about them."

Malfoy sighed. He wondered if the warranty had expired, or if he couldn't just send these two back for a pair of shiny, new goons.

o—o—o—o

"I can't help but feel like there was something I was supposed to do this morning," Milo said as he walked back to the castle from the forest, "but I just can't remember what it was. Can't have been very important."

o—o—o—o

Hermione was forced to admit to herself, however reluctantly, that she was dead bored. The three boys were total morons, but they _did_ make things interesting. She wondered if there was some way she could work her way back into their preposterous plan without looking exceedingly foolish. She applied her towering intellect to the problem, hypothesized various scenarios and predicted their likely outcomes, and thirty seconds later said:

"Nope."

Hermione sighed. It wasn't even that their points were even slightly convincing, it was just that it was sort of fun, in a dark way, to imagine that You-Know-Who really _was_ returning and that he was after the Stone and Snape was a dark wizard...

"But I can't go back on my position," she reminded herself. "Or I'll look like an idiot."

"Yes, but just think," she countered, "what if it _is _true? What if Snape is trying to get the Stone for You-Know-Who? Shouldn't I be helping put a stop to this?"

"If it is, Dumbledore would know, and he would do something. He's the only one You-Know-Who was ever afraid of, after all."

"But Dumbledore is just one person," the other side of her argued, "he could get caught by surprise, or called away, or be sleeping, or distracted, or _anything_."

"But if _Dumbledore_ isn't enough, how could I _possibly_ help? I'm barely twelve."

"Is that what _everyone_ said in the last war?" she questioned herself. "Did they just say, 'I'm only a dressmaker, Dumbledore will take care of it, and in any case my marks in Defence Against the Dark Arts were rubbish,' and _nobody_ did anything?"

"Doing the opposite and going on a witch hunt now will only make things _worse_," she protested. "There's no knowing where it will end."

"Without a witch hunt, you'll never catch witches."

"I _am_ a witch!"

"You—er, I—know what I mean."

"So I'll just wait until there's proof," she said, "and then I'll help in any way that I can. How is that not reasonable?"

"Just think, Hermione, _think_. You—er, I—know what the problem is."

She sighed.

"It's that it's _Harry_ and _Ron_ that I'm depending on to find conclusive proof," she said defeatedly.

o—o—o—o

"Professor," Harry asked the ghost of Professor Binns politely, "Ron and I were wondering if you could help us on a little independent research?"

"Research—_my h_elp—independent—why, I'd be _delighted_!" the ghost said. "Would you believe that in all my years of teaching, no student has _ever_ asked me that? What is it you need to know?"

"Nicolas Flamel," Ron said. "He just seemed like such a... a... uh, a dynamic and interesting—"

"—historically significant—" Harry added.

"—yeah, historically significant, dynamic, interesting, historical, erm a, figure." Ron finished lamely.

"And we'd love to hear everything you know about him," Harry said. For some unimaginable reason, most of the library seemed to be checked out already (maybe they were doing some re-organizing?) so they'd resorted to actually asking a professor for help. It seemed to rub Harry the wrong way, somehow, going to an adult, but it was all they could come up with.

Harry diligently tried, he really did, to listen to everything Binns said about Flamel and to stay awake while doing so, but the stone's texture in the floor was just so much more _interesting_. Ron's eyes developed a glassy look in under five minutes (glassier than usual, that is), and by the third hour Harry wasn't quite sure that he didn't look the at least as bad.

"Well," he said after they'd (finally) left Binns' office, "that was, uh, interesting."

"Was it?" Ron asked. "Glad to hear it."

"I think," Harry said, "that we might need Hermione."

"I was hoping you wouldn't say that, mate," Ron said with a sigh. "Did we learn anything important, though?"

Harry shrugged.

"Flamel's a big, powerful wizard and master alchemist who found out how to create a Philosopher's Stone—turns out, it's not necessarily a unique object, but he only ever made the one, anyway—which can turn lead into gold and create the Elixir of Life. He used to fight Dark Wizards, but decided to retire with his wife way back, and he's been sort of neutral since then. Keeps to himself, mostly."

"So, nothing we didn't already know," Ron said. "Great, just _great_. Well, there went our Saturday, eh?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "I hope Milo found something more useful in the Forbidden Forest."

"And that he didn't get eaten by werewolves," Ron added.

o—o—o—o

Milo, in a rare moment of luck, made a Listen check successfully. He almost wished he hadn't. He'd hoped to get out of the woods without the mandatory random encounter.

"_Invisibility,_" he said as he faded from sight. _Hope it's not a false alarm_, he thought. _That was my last 2__nd__-level spell_.

All he'd heard was movement in the shrubs, and it could have been caused by anything. Really, when it came down to it, Milo not only didn't know what kind of creatures lived in this forest, but this _world_. Bugbears? Owlbears? Dire bears? Giant bears? Shapeshifted druids in the form of bears? Gods help him, _grizzly _bears?

As it turned out, it was far, far worse than any form of bear or bear-like monstrosity.

It was Professor Snape.

_Is he here looking for me? Or is _he _the one killing unicorns, and he's going for another one?_ _I could follow him_, Milo thought, _but _Invisibility _only lasts four minutes_. _And if I run into trouble, I'm already out of spells_. Milo bit his lip. _I feel like Harry Potter would for sure, but... well..._ _this is a job for a Rogue. I've got no business sneaking around in a forest, tailing people. I'm a _Wizard_, I should have people for this._ He frowned.

"Hey, Mordy," he whispered, "time to put that +10 bonus to Move Silently to use." Mordenkainen, who had been sitting on his shoulder, nodded gravely (although Milo couldn't see, because the familiar was as invisible as he was) and scampered noiselessly after the Potions Master.

o—o—o—o

"You're late," Lucius hissed. "You were supposed to be here forty-seven seconds ago."

Snape said nothing.

"I need a favour," Lucius said. "It would do well for you to comply."

"Go on," Snape shrugged.

"There is a certain individual who, I understand, is a first-year student attending Hogwarts," Lucius said. "He has no business here. Have him expelled."

"The Potter boy?" Snape grinned. He'd wondered when Lucius was going to make his move against the Dark Lord's mortal enemy. Fortunately, he and Dumbledore had prepared for this.

"No, we can deal with Potter later; I speak of one Mr. ... Amastacia-Liadon," Lucius said. _He... no, _it _knows too much, whatever it is that we summoned_, Lucius thought_._ "Whatever you have to do, get him out of that school."

"It shall be as you say," Snape said. _Now, _this _is good news_, Snape thought. _Time to get back at that _boy _for insulting my house and attacking my students. And unlike Potter, I'm under no obligation to protect him._ Snape smiled briefly before masking it. _No sense letting Lucius know I'd do this one for free._

"It shouldn't be too hard for you," Lucius said. "He's not a wizard." _I doubt he's even human_._ We may have accidentally created some sort of ... Homunculus. An artificial human. There's no telling what it might do._

o—o—o—o

When Milo returned to the castle, it was late afternoon. He was glad to make it to safety—not because he thought he was really in any mortal danger, after what he'd discovered in the forest, but because without any powerful spells he was as good as useless if another plot hook appeared.

What he had to do was find Harry. He had a right to know about Milo's discovery—it directly affected the Boy-Who-Lived, after all.

"M-M-Milo," Milo heard a familiar voice from behind him. "M-m-m-ight I have a w-w-w-word with you?"

"Sure," Milo said. "What's up, Professor?"

"E-enjoying the sun, I s-s-see?" Quirrell asked.

"It was sunny?" Milo asked. Nobody ever paid much attention to weather where he was from, unless it was an ominous thunderstorm. "Well, then I guess I was. And I went to check out that spider thingy I killed the other day."

"Oh, did you?" Quirrell asked. "Whatever for?"

"It's just that something seemed wrong about the whole thing. The tree really shouldn't have killed it," he said.

"It looked like a pretty heavy tree to me," Quirrell said. "Maybe it was an extraordinarily lucky hit?"

"Falling objects can't critical hit, because they don't make attack rolls," Milo said. "It would be different if I threw it."

Quirrell paused.

"I'm sorry, what did you just say?"

"Ah, nevermind. I'll figure it out eventually. I don't suppose you noticed anything?"

"No," said Quirrell. "I did not—although just a moment ago, I did see the Potions Master heading into the forest." Quirrell looked Milo directly in the eye when he did, as if expecting something.

"Oh, did you?" Milo said. "Wonder what he was doing. Gathering rare potions ingredients or something. Probably. Yeah, totally that." _Natural 1 on Bluff. Great. Just _great_._

"Of course. Well, I'll be seeing you in class Monday," Quirrell said.

o—o—o—o

_ Not a Wizard?_ Snape mused. _What could that possibly mean? How could he be in Hogwarts and _not _be a Wizard?_ _I'll have to keep a closer eye on him in class..._

Snape's breath caught. _The only reason Lucius would have an interest in him is if the boy's tale were true,_ he thought. _So, impossible as it seems, he really _is _from another world._

Snape was caught in a dilemma. If he refused to do as Lucius asked, it would blow his cover with the Death Eaters, and his position there would be necessary in the next war. And, though he tried to keep it from influencing his decision, he _did_ want to get his revenge with Milo for 'accidentally' blinding his students. But... Snape was under no illusions about what Lucius would do to Milo once the boy was outside of the wards and away from Dumbledore's protection.

The Snape that everyone knew, the pawn of Lucius, would comply. If he didn't, it would confirm any suspicions Lucius had about him being a double agent. And besides, if Milo really _wasn't_ a wizard, then it would be Snape's duty as professor to make sure he was expelled. Besides, Milo wasn't anyone _important_. It was unfortunate, perhaps, but the boy had become a pawn that needed to be sacrificed to protect the king.

Snape was broken out of his reverie when he bumped into the Defence Professor.

"S-s-s-sorry, S-S-Severus," Quirrell stammered and scurried away. Snape shook his head. _It should have been me with that position_, Snape thought._ Quirrell is much more suited to his old job as Professor of Muggle Studies_.

_Hang on,_ Snape thought. He could practically hear the wheels clicking in his brain. _What was it Quirrell said about Milo? That he was impressed with his magical abilities?_ From what Snape had heard, Milo was one of the least gifted students that Hogwarts had seen, apart from his occasional demonstration of wandless magic. And after that acromantula attack, Quirrell had tried pretty desperately to save the boy... most unusual. The Quirrell that Snape knew fainted whenever he saw a spider.

_Most unusual, indeed._ With everything going on involving Milo, nothing, Snape decided, should be treated as coincidence. Snape resolved to keep a closer eye on the Defence Professor, and watch for an opportunity to prove Milo's lack of magic. _Shouldn't be too hard_, he thought. _I'll just have to wait for the other students to progress somewhat. When he fails to do so as well, that will be evidence enough._

o—o—o—o

_Sometimes I'm so clever I outsmart myself_, Milo thought bitterly. _This is one of those times_.

"Squeak squeak _squeak squeak_," Mordy said excitedly. "Squeak squeak SQUEAK."

"Mordenkainen: _I don't speak Rat,_" Milo said, his voice tinged with an edge of frustration. Though they shared an empathic link, which let each know the other's general mood and condition, they couldn't actually _speak_ until Milo hit level five.

"What's up, mate?" Ron asked him. Milo was sitting in Gryffindor Common Room, trying to figure out what Mordy had seen Snape do. From what he could tell, there was a great deal of squeaking involved. Ron and Harry had just walked through the portal, looking despondent.

"I found Snape sneaking about in the forest and had Mordy tail him, but I evidently didn't think very far ahead when I did. You ever hear of a spell that lets you talk to animals?"

"Nope," Ron said. "Except for Parselmouths, of course."

"Parcel mouths?" Milo asked. "What are those, aside from the worst thing to get in the mail imaginable?"

"Blimey!" Ron exclaimed. "_Everyone_ knows about Parselmouths."

Harry sighed.

"Ron, I thought I asked you to stop doing that?" Potter said. "I was raised by Muggles, and Milo's from another planet or something."

"Oh, right. Sorry."

"We know as much about Parselmouths as we did about Quidditch," Harry continued.

"Sorry."

"Which is to say absolutely nothing."

"Sorry."

"Because we, unlike you, were not raised in Magical Britain."

"Sorry."

"Just saying."

"Right."

Milo coughed.

"Parselmouths?" he asked.

"Oh, right," Ron said. "Well, it's this really rare ability some people have that lets them talk to snakes," Ron said. "It's said Slytherin was one—Salazar Slytherin, that is—and You-Know-Who. It's a sign of Dark Wizards, for sure. I've never heard of any after You-Know-Who, and it's just snakes, anyway."

"Oh," Milo said. "Well, that's pretty useless." Harry, however, had gone completely white.

"I have to—that is, I should probably—I'll just go. Er. Bye." Harry said, and fled the Common Room.

"Well, that was weird," Ron said. "Wonder what that was all about?"

"Something significant, probably," Milo said. "But I don't think it has anything to do with us, yet. We can always ask him later, but right _now_, I have to figure out how to speak with this rat."

"So you can find out what evil things Snape was up to in the forest?" Ron asked.

"Yeah," Milo said. "then you can use it to get Hermione to help you figure out what's going on with the Philosopher's Stone."

"How do you know we need help?" Ron asked defensively. "For all you know, we learned everything we needed today."

"Oh? Did you?"

"Maybe. I wasn't really listening, to be honest," Ron admitted.

"Which is why we need Hermione."

"Which is why you need to make your rat speak."

"Yeah."

"Bollocks," Ron said. "Best of luck."

There was a spell Milo knew of that would help, called _Speak With Animals_. Unfortunately, it was only available to Rangers, Druids, and Bards—and Milo would sooner die than become any of those. If he could get his hands on a gnome—a proper gnome, not one of those garden gnomes that Ron kept complaining about—then they could maybe help, because they could speak with animals a few times a day. Only burrowing animals, though. Milo wondered if rats counted as burrowing animals or, if not, merely digging a hole once would count. He would, technically be "burrowing."

Milo sighed. He didn't have a gnome, he didn't have a Ranger, he didn't have a Druid, and he neither had nor particularly wanted a Bard.

"Squeak, squeak squeak," Mordy continued without pause.

There were only two options, as Milo saw it. He could attempt to push the rules past breaking point and test if his Spontaneous Divination ability could mimic Druid spells, or he could wait until levelling up to find out. The first option risked calling righteous fury upon himself from above, while the second took time and monster slaying. Unfortunately, patience was a virtue, and Milo was True Neutral.

"_Speak with Animals_," Milo tried to cast, attempting to swap out _Protection from Evil_. Other than losing the spell from his memorized list, nothing happened—but Milo felt a distinct sense of _wrongness_. It was as if the universe recoiled from him slightly, pondered for a moment, then...

"Excuse me," Lavender Brown said to him, "Professor McGonagall told me to tell you that Professor Snape wants to talk to you, like, right this second."

"I'm sure it's totally a coincidence," Milo said nervously as he started to sweat. "Heh, heh. Hah. Coincidence. OhmygodsI'mgoingtodie." Lavender gave him a sympathetic look, but said nothing.

Milo supposed he would just have to wait until he gained another level before finding out what Snape was up to in the Forbidden Forest. _And this_, he thought as he walked towards Snape's dungeon, _is why you don't try to stretch the Rules as Written to allow more than 150% as much as the Rules as Intended, er, intended._

_I just hope I'll have the opportunity to live long enough to learn from my mistake._

Milo knocked on the heavy wooden door to Snape's office, which created a surprisingly loud echo.

"Enter," a voice said sternly from the other side of the door. Milo quickly ran through his assets before opening the door: a pair of _Prestidigitations _and _Dancing Lights_, an _Acid Splash_, a _Protection from Evil_, a _Silent Image_, anda _Feather Fall_, as well as the contents of his _Belt of Hidden Pouches_.

So, not much.

Milo cautiously opened the door and walked in. Snape's office was... uniquely atmospheric. There was an eyeball floating in a jar, and it was probably the _least_ creepy thing there.

"Ah, mister Amastacia-Liadon," Snape said. "I've been expecting you."

Milo whimpered quietly. Sitting on Snape's desk was a lustrous black flask inlaid with a silver skull pattern. There was a skull-shaped stopper with reflective red eyes. To complete the image, the eyes glowed slightly.

"Madam Pomfrey has instructed me to give you this," he said, gesturing at the very, _very_ evil flask. "It contains a week's worth of antidote for acromantula venom," Snape continued. "You are to drink one teaspoon every night, ideally within a minute or two of midnight for full effect."

"W-why midnight?" Milo stammered.

"Oh, just so your body has time to process it before breakfast."

"W-why the sk-skulls?"

"It's the only flask I had in the correct size."

"Oh." That didn't, of course, answer the question of why he possessed such a flask in the first place. It looked more suited to holding the blood of sacrificial maidens than medicine. Well, no matter, Milo could just cast _Detect Poison_ on it as soon as he left the office to see if it was dangerous.

"Oh, before you go, make sure you don't drink more than your prescribed amount," Snape warned. "That's a powerful poison in large quantities." _Well,_ Milo thought, _there goes that plan. It would just register as poisonous anyways. The safest option is to just toss a teaspoon of it down the drain every night and hope for the best._

"And make sure you don't miss a night, either," Snape said. "Or the venom could relapse, and you'll most likely die." _Oh, come _on.

"Oh. Um, thanks," Milo said. "I'll just, ah, go now. Bye, Professor." Milo fled the room, and didn't stop running until he was in front of the Fat Lady.

"Password?" she asked.

"Squeak," Milo said, and the painting swung open to reveal Gryffindor Tower.

Milo found Ron and Harry sitting at a table by themselves playing Wizard Chess. Harry had evidently returned from his weird flight earlier, but still looked a little shaken. Milo was no chess expert, but judging by the fact that Harry only had two pieces left, Ron was winning.

Milo collapsed into an overstuffed armchair and slammed the accursed flask on the table.

"_Detect Poison_, _Detect Magic_," he started casting rapidly.

"Bloody hell, mate," Ron said, staring at the skulled flask. "What's in there, You-Know-Who's tears?"

"_Identify, Ancient Knowledge, Appraising Touch,_" Milo continued casting uninterrupted.

"What's that you're muttering?" Harry said. "Are you sweating? What happened?"

"It's poisonous and apparently nonmagical," Milo said to himself. "But that broomstick didn't appear to be magical, either. It could have a _Magic Aura_ cast on it to conceal it from detection," Milo said, "or something more powerful. Otherwise I don't know at all what's in there... And it could _really_ be poisonous, and Snape was just saying 'it's poisonous in large quantities' as an excuse to make me ignore the results of _Detect Poison_. Although Snape can't have known that I could do that, could he? Nobody here knows what my capabilities are, right? Unless he can read minds... Nah. Will is my highest save, that would never work. But _Detect Poison_ only detects, like, actual, literal _poison_," he continued. "It wouldn't say anything was wrong if this were say, a _Potion of _Bestow Curse or Potion of Horrid Wilting... No, potions only go up to 3rd-level spells... so the worst it could be is, say, a Potion of Inflict Critical Wounds, maybe, which would still be more than enough to kill me. Or whatever the closest analogue is in this world."

"Sorry, what?" Ron asked.

"But if Snape is telling the truth and I don't drink tonight it I'll _die_." Milo ran his fingers through his hair. "Did Snape _really_ give me an antidote that's technically poisonous just to fool my _Detect Poison_ spell? And then make it into a lethal, but technically non-poisonous potion of some horrendous instant death spell once I'd concluded it wasn't really poisonous, at least in small doses, and therefore it's safe? Surely _nobody's_ brain is that twisty..."

"Yours is, mate," Ron pointed out.

"But if this is going to kill me, why did he put it in such an over-the-top flask?" Milo asked.

"Uh," Harry said, "I'm not really sure what you're talking about, but maybe he gave you that flask of doom so you'd think '_surely no-one would put actual poison in something like this_' and then you'd drink it."

"Ah!" Milo exclaimed. "You could be right! I'm going to _die_ I never should have tried to speak to this useless rat!"

Over on the other side of the common room, Hermione rolled her eyes, put her book aside, and stood up exasperatedly.

"I couldn't help but overhear your anguished shrieks of, well, anguish," Hermione said walking over. "And why would Snape poison you with something everyone knows he gave you?"

"So you _do_ think Snape's evil!" Ron said.

"No, dimwit," Hermione said, rolling her eyes again. "I said 'assuming your half-brained theory is correct and Snape is evil,' first. Remember?"

"You did?" Ron frowned. "I _don't_ remember that, actually."

"Then try listening, next time, maybe?" Hermione asked testily. "Anyway," she continued as if Ron hadn't spoken, "if you drunk that and died, everyone would know Snape did it."

"I'd still be dead!" Milo protested.

"What I _meant_ is, he wouldn't do it if it would reveal himself. Obviously."

"No, because he explicitly stated it would kill me if I either didn't drink it or if I drank too much," Milo countered, speaking rapidly. "So say I do drink it and I die, he could just say, 'oh, that poor stupid boy, he must have overdosed himself by accident, what a tragedy, oh, me, I'm so sorry, he showed so much promise, mwa ha ha, we're all worse off for his untimely death, oh, the humanity.'"

"So, ask Madam Pomfrey," Hermione said.

"Ask her what?" Milo asked, perplexed.

"If that's actually the antidote," she said.

Milo blinked.

"Why?"

"Because she'd tell you. She's a mediwitch; she knows what she's doing."

"I don't understand," Milo confessed. Asking adults for help was not something he, as an adventurer, had ever considered doing before.

"I'll use short, simple sentences so that even _you_ can understand," Hermione said sharply. "Take this flask. Go to the hospital wing. Say, 'Madam Pomfrey, can you check that this is really acromantula antidote? I'm worried Snape gave me the wrong flask by accident.' She'll look at it and say, 'yes, this is the antidote, it's very dangerous so follow the directions precisely,' or, alternatively, say, 'no, that's distilled nightshade, among the deadlier poisons known to man.'"

"That's... a little unorthodox, but it just might work," Milo admitted. "But how do I know I can trust Madam Pomfrey? Actually, what if Snape _assumed_ I would ask Pomfrey and deliberately made this here elixir of death to pass whatever test she would think of?" he asked. "Because he certainly outsmarted _mine_."

"No," Hermione said. "_You_ outsmarted _yourself_. Just drink it."

"On the plus side," Ron said. "If you do drink it and die, that will prove you were right and Snape's evil and Hermione will help us stop him! It's a win-win."

"...but I'll be dead," Milo said.

"Can't have everything, mate," Ron shrugged.

"I've been outsmarted," Milo decided. "Whatever I decide, I'm probably falling for Snape's evil plan. I'll just... I'll flip a copper piece. Emperor, I drink it; Hydra, I don't."

He pulled out a copper from his Belt, and flipped it. It twirled four times in the air, and landed with a heavy thud on the table.

The four of them stared at it in disbelief.

"Blimey," said Ron. "I... I didn't think that was even _possible_."

"It is, without a doubt, highly improbable," Hermione conceded.

The coin was sitting on the heavy wooden table, balanced perfectly on its edge.

o—o—o—o

Snape leaned back in his leather chair, smiling. He knew he wasn't supposed to use Legilimency on students for his own amusement, but...

_Even if I get sacked for this_, he thought, _it was, without a doubt, worth it._ He could only imagine the agony and indecision going through Milo's head after he'd left.


	8. Chapter 8: Sidequests

The antidote, as it turned out, was harmless. That didn't stop Milo from buffing himself up with a _Resistance _spell and keeping his Antitoxin on hand before taking his dosage, however. Despite the fact that, aided by Snape's potion, Milo recovered from the after-effects of his poisoning fairly quickly, the rest of Autumn at Hogwarts was, well, unpleasant.

Harry and Ron made absolutely no progress in their hunt for information about the Philosopher's Stone among the teachers, and for such a powerful and famous artifact, Milo could barely find anything about it in the Hogwarts Library. He _Scholar's Touch_-ed his way through mountains of thick, dusty tomes without even opening their covers, and while he learned a lot of apparently useless information, there was little that seemed relevant to him. _Scholar's Touch_ didn't grant any special powers to aid in memorization, so the fact that he 'read' the books so rapidly actually made it _harder_ to keep his facts straight. Still, he reckoned he'd absorbed enough general setting information that he could start making Knowledge (History) checks about this world.

It was during this period that Milo noticed something unnatural about the people here. The more he watched them learn, the less he was sure that they were even human at all—they _looked_ human, sure, but...

Well, to start, there was the food. The people here were _obsessed_ with it, and kept comparing the various flavours of dishes that the house-elves cooked up for them (Milo was _dying_ to meet one of the elves here, he was _sure_ they could help him. Elves were annoying, sure, but the pointy-eared pansies and magic went hand in hand). Some even developed _favourite foods_ and avoided certain ones altogether. To Milo, food was a logistical challenge to be overcome while adventuring and a source of danger if it ran low (thus, the Everlasting Rations, which were all that Milo ever ate). The actual _taste_ of food was something that only came up in plot-relevant situations – like smell, and the weather. The people of Milo's world only smelled things when they were important, like a Troglodyte's stench or a potential clue (or red herring, for that matter). Otherwise, why bother even mentioning it?

Another peculiarity in these people was the inordinate amount of down time they required. Milo had to spend eight hours sleeping and an hour memorizing spells, but that left fifteen hours a day to put to use attending class, fighting monsters, and crafting items off-screen. Milo knew an Artificer by the name of Alton who, when he finally got his hands on a Ring of Sustenance, spent two hours sleeping, eight hours crafting magic items (the maximum amount per day) and the other fourteen hours in a day mass-producing baskets to fund his adventuring. Alton did that every day for three hundred years straight, with breaks to fight monsters to recover lost Experience Points, until he'd amassed a fortune large enough to attract the attention of a wandering Blue Dragon. Alton's unfortunate demise aside, it was just good sense to put their hours to use—they were only given twenty-four in a day, after all. And besides, manual labour was the sort of thing done during a timeskip, anyways, it's not like it got in the way of the story. Even Hermione seemed shocked by the amount of time he spent reading and working. In just one week, Milo managed to custom-tailor his fifth-hand Hogwarts uniform (untrained, but with +2 for masterwork tools (which Milo also made himself) and +4 from his Intelligence) until it rivalled Draco's in quality, read more books than any of his classmates (save Hermione) could in a year, and carve holy symbols of Pelor, Heironeous, St. Cuthbert, and Boccob into key locations around Gryffindor Tower. _That _had earned him some strange looks, despite the fact that the residents there were _fully aware_ that there were vampires on the same continent as them. That was all in addition to the daily chores all first year Gryffindors were required to do as punishment for trying to kill or maim the Slytherins back in September. Milo theorized that, while he had to spend an hour poring over his spellbook, performing arcane research, and memorizing spells every morning, the Wizards here had to spend at four to eight hours a day (judging by comparisons between Hermione and Ron, it was an amount of time equal to eight minus their Intelligence Bonus, in hours per day) sitting around on armchairs and talking about the weather.

But that wasn't the _really_ weird thing. The more Milo watched these students in their classes, the harder a time he had sleeping at night. The way they were learning was _wrong_. It was oh, so, incredibly wrong. Ordinary people learned in discrete increments: they levelled up, their powers, skills, and abilities increased, and then they plateaued until attaining enough Experience Points to go up another level. It was just _obvious_. That was, intuitively, the way everyone—humans, elves, dwarves, kobolds, mindflayers, small fluffy hamsters, _everyone_—learned.

Watching his fellow Gryffindors, Milo wondered, though it seemed impossible, if their skills didn't develop _gradually_. There seemed to be a slow, constant growth in magical ability, historical knowledge, broomstick skills, or whatever, that depended on that student's particular aptitude in that area. Hermione, for example, was the fastest to learn in Defence Against the Dark Arts, Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, Herbology, Astrology... actually, pretty much all of their classes except for Broomstick Flying (which went to Harry, who was also, to be fair, pretty close to even Hermione in Defence), and History of Magic (to Milo's intense embarrassment, it was the only class he seemed to be doing any good in, and even that was only as a result of his supersonic library binge).

That wasn't to say that Milo was completely _useless_ in class, it was just... he had to wait and hope that whichever particular Charm (this world had a totally different definition of Charm than Milo's, which caused him no end of confusion) they were about to learn was fairly close to his limited repertoire of spells so he could fake his way through. If it wasn't... well, having to be helped by Neville Longbottom when attempting to learn the Cutting Charm was somewhat embarrassing. Transfiguration wasn't _too_ bad. He managed to get by, to a certain extent, with using _Prestidigitation_ to change the colour and, on one memorable occasion, taste of the object he was attempting to transfigure. He started out ahead, but now he was barely scraping a A (which stood for Acceptable, and was counter-intuitively, the lowest passing grade) but if he didn't get some new spells soon, he'd slip into P (for Poor) territory with alacrity. Charms was going distressingly poorly until Flitwick announced they'd be learning how to levitate objects. Milo simply cast _Levitate_ quietly then said "_Wingardium Leviosa_" with the rest of them, and astonished the class and earned him five House Points by lifting an entire table, complete with Neville (who had been leaning against it and grabbed one of the legs in a panic as it started to float away) and lowering it back down again.

Defence Against the Dark Arts was kind of pointless. Quirrell, for all the mystery surrounding him, didn't seem to care whatsoever about teaching. What they _did_ learn was mostly limited to dealing with magical household pests. Milo was forced to wonder what the Muggles did when confronted with a Bowtruckle in their trees, or if the magical creatures had an inbuilt sense of decency and fair play, and as a result only targeted humans carrying wands. Milo caused quite a stir when he suggested the best way to deal with vampires was to impair them with _Webs_, _Glitterdust_, and _Grease_ so that your non-spellcaster allies can take them out with wooden stakes.

"You would bring _Muggles_ with you?" Quirrell had asked, sounding genuinely shocked.

"Well, sure. You don't see many a Wizard pumping irons or practicing hand-to-hand combat, now do you? Deck 'em out in full plate, give 'em a pointy stick, and point 'em in the right direction." It was incredible. They seemed to never have heard of the concept of a meat shield, and even the Slytherins were shocked and appalled when he attempted to educate them. That there was something morally questionable about sending the heavily armoured, greataxe-wielding barbarian with mighty thews out front to soak up damage had never occurred to Milo. It seemed to him that the wizards here were remarkably selfish, never giving a thought to how their nonmagical allies would feel when the spellcasters hogged all the glory and XP with their vastly superior powers.

Broomstick lessons, however, were dreadful. Milo had come to the conclusion that the broomsticks weren't actually magical _at all_, but that the local wizards had a spell or class feature that let them animate certain broomsticks (probably with a specific cost requirement, which is why they didn't use ordinary cleaning mops) for flight. Milo, not having said spell or perk, was completely unsuccessful at making the thrice-damned stick float, and finally gave up and _Levitated_ the accursed thing. This let him go up and down, but to move horizontally he had to awkwardly kick off of walls and objects. He felt like a six-year-old who'd accidentally been signed up for swimming lessons for eight-year-olds, and was desperately trying to dog paddle around the room while everyone else was demonstrating backstrokes.

The worst, the absolute _worst_, was Potions. Snape seemed to go out of his way to make Harry's life as miserable as possible, which was annoying, but the concerning thing was how he always kept a _very_ close eye on Milo. The thing was, the potions _didn't work_. He chopped up the ingredients exactly how the book suggested and made sure to turn the spoon clockwise three times and counterclockwise one-and-a-half times, or whatever, but _nothing happened_. Even _Neville's_ potions occasionally exploded, or melted, or screamed, or caught fire, or in one case got up and ran out of the room blabbering about the Kennedy Assassination. But Milo's potions, though Milo would bet his spellbook he was doing everything right, were just water with stuff floating in them. Whenever one of Harry's potions failed catastrophically, Snape would deduct house points and scold him, but whenever he noticed that Milo's was use-impaired (Milo was hesitant to call them _useless_, because they could still be, and frequently were, employed to put out fires) Snape just smiled to himself and made a note in the compact, leather-bound notebook he carried about his person.

It was that evening that Milo learned about Hallowe'en.

"So, what are you going as?" Hannah Abbot asked him. She seemed to enjoy sitting next to him at meals for some inexplicable reason. Milo only bothered to go to the Great Hall for dinner (as opposed to munching on Everlasting Rations in his dorm) because he'd noticed a correlation between mealtimes there and having important conversations.

Milo blinked in surprise. Being knocked out of a timeskip was rather like spending the whole day reading a good book, then remembering you had a party to go to, but the book was _so good_ that you read it the whole way on the bus and were completely distracted and absent-minded all evening, until you hear someone say your name from the other side of the room, and _snap_. Broken out of your reverie, just like that.

"Sorry, say that again?" Milo asked. "I was distracted."

"I was just asking what you were going to dress up for on Hallowe'en," Hannah asked.

"No, that still doesn't make any sense. What's Hallowe'en?"

Hannah blinked, shook her head slightly, and blinked again. She looked like someone had just asked her what a Natural 20 was.

"You don't even _know_? _Everyone_ knows what Hallowe'en is!" she exclaimed.

Milo sighed.

"Look, I've been over this. I wasn't raised by wizards, _etcetera_ _etcetera_, fill me in?"

"No, but even _Muggles_ know about Hallowe'en!" Hannah said.

"I'm not from around here, remember?" Milo reminded her.

"Well, I guess, it's a holiday where everyone dresses up as monsters and goes around taking candy from strangers," Hannah said. "Which always confused me a little, because that's exactly what me mum is always reminding me _not_ to do."

"I see," Milo said. "that seems... terribly mundane, actually. Surely I didn't get pulled out of compressed time for _that_?" Milo frowned. "Harry," Milo said, turning to his left, "is Hallowe'en written on your list, anywhere?"

"Ah, lemme check," Harry said, and flipped through his lengthy list of notes. "Nope, not at all."

"Try All Hallows' Eve," Hermione suggested, "and Samhain."

"Hey, I thought you weren't helping?" Ron pointed out.

"I'm not," she said defensively. "I'm just... advising. Oh, and Harry, try just looking for October Thirty-First."

"Advising _is_ helping. And of _course_ Hallowe'en is significant for Harry," Ron said. "_Everyone_ knows—oh, right, sorry. I forgot. Anyway, it's the day that Harry defeated You-Know-Who ten years ago."

"You mean, the day when my parents..." Harry sighed.

"Uhm. Right. Sorry," Ron said apologetically.

"Still don't see what's important about _that_," Milo said. Hermione shot him a look that could curdle milk, nodding slightly towards Harry. "I mean, aside from, you know, being tragic. Just tragic. Uh. Terrible, that is. Tragic and terrible."

"Don't worry about it," Harry said quietly.

"Oh, phew." Milo said, relieved, before moving on to what he saw as more pressing issues. "Anyways. Tenth anniversary of You-Know-Who's alleged demise? Dumbledore doesn't look very concerned," Milo said, nodding to the eccentric Headmaster at the Head Table, "meaning there was nothing about it in the Prophecy."

"Wait, what Prophecy?" Hermione asked.

"There's _always_ a Prophecy, Hermione," Milo rolled his eyes. "_Everyone_ knows that."

"Point for his side," Ron muttered.

"I hadn't realized we were keeping score," Hermione said sharply.

"We're Quidditch players," Ron said nodding to Harry, "we _always_ keep score."

"So, when's this Hallowe'en thing?" Milo asked.

"October Thirty-First," Hannah supplied. "Tomorrow."

"Hermione," Milo said. "If I'm right, and something dramatic does happen tomorrow evening, will you admit that I'm right, that Snape is evil, that the Philosopher's Stone is involved—that it's maybe even at Hogwarts, in or about the clearly relevant third floor corridor—that You-Know-Who isn't really dead, and that... wait, was there something else? No, I think that's about it. Anyway, will you?"

"Nope," Hermione said simply. "Because there is absolutely no correlation between any of those events. Say, tomorrow, the Chamber of Secrets is opened and Muggleborns start dying. There's _no connection_ between that and You-Know-Who being alive. _If_ You-Know-Who is alive, that's absolutely _no reason_ to think that Snape is, quote, _evil_. If Snape _is_ evil, that's no reason to think the Philosopher's Stone is in Hogwarts. Unless Snape releases Slytherin's Monster to use as a distraction so he can get the Stone to bring You-Know-Who back to life. That would make perfect sense, actually. Can the Philospher's Stone do that?"

"The great Hermione Granger, asking a question?" Milo laughed. "Well, mine can. That is, Philosopher's Stones' from my universe can bring back the dead –"

"What?" Harry asked quietly. "Really?"

"Sure," said Milo. "Of course, any old Cleric can do the same for a few gold pieces and some diamond powder, so I don't really see what the big deal is."

Harry choked on his food.

"Wh-wh-what?" he asked.

"_Raise Dead, Resurrection, True Resurrection, Reincarnate, Revivify, Miracle_, and _Wish_," Milo said, ticking off his fingers as he listed the spells, "are all spells that can bring back the dead, to name a few."

"Y-you can bring the dead back to life?" Harry asked.

"Me? Ha! Boccob, No. It's really more Divine spellcaster territory. I _think_, but I'd have to do a little research to be sure, that Wizards have to use _Wish_ to do it, and it's really powerful magic. Demands a huge sacrifice of Experience, and in any case it's _way_ beyond my abilities."

"Oh," said Harry, looking crestfallen.

"Milo," Hermione said acidly, "You and I will have words about this later. You're going to have to learn some tact one of these days, even if I have to shove it down your throat at wandpoint."

"Point for her side," Ron said.

"Oh, shuttup. So the Philospher's Stone can bring back the dead?" Hermione asked.

"What? Oh, haha, no. Yours can't, anyways. From what I found in the library, it just turns stuff into gold and lets you live forever."

"Well, that's a—ah. Nevermind," Hermione said, glancing at Harry.

"That's a _what_, Hermione?" Harry asked.

"Well, it means You-Know-Who can't come back, so it's kind of a..."

"A relief, isn't it? That the Stone can't bring back the dead?" Harry pushed.

"Yes, if you must know, that's what I was going to say. But that was before I thought about it, and stopped myself, because I didn't initially think it through the whole way."

"Fair enough," Harry said.

"I think I missed something there," Ron admitted quietly to Milo.

"Hermione was about to say it was a relief that the Philosopher's Stone can't bring back the dead, but right now Harry's thinking about his parents," Milo explained in a whisper, "so she was as good as saying it'd be worth it that we couldn't bring back Harry's folks, as well as anyone else decent who'd died, just to keep You-Know-Who down."

"Let's try to stay on topic, okay?" Harry asked.

"Right. Sorry," Hermione apologised.

"Forget it. What should we do about tomorrow?" Harry wondered.

"Tell a professor," Hermione shrugged.

"We can't very well go up to McGonagall and say, _'excuse me, Professor, tomorrow's Hallowe'en and Milo's Spidey Sense is tingling so can you lock down the school, just to be sure?'_ she'd think we were nuts, for sure," Harry said.

"What's a Spidey Sense?" Ron asked.

Harry suppressed a grin.

"_Blimey!_ You don't even know what the _Spider-Sense_ is? Everyone knows _that!_ It's Spider-Man's ability to sense danger before it happens," Harry said. "How on Earth did you become eleven years old and _not_ know that?"

"Point for his side," Hermione smirked. "But Harry makes a good point. The reason it sounds crazy is because it still _is_ crazy."

"You're too hung up on actual, you know, _facts_, Hermione," Milo said. "Just be on your toes tomorrow, okay? That goes for everyone," Milo added.

"In all seriousness, what could I possibly do, even on my toes?" Hermione asked. "Use the Levitating Charm to save the day? Transfigure up some sewing needles? I've only been a Witch for two months. I'll stay inside the castle tomorrow, not that I have much choice, because _someone_ got us all a full year of detention. Aside from that, I don't know about you, but I'm going to enjoy Hallowe'en in family tradition, passed down the Granger line for generations: by revising and doing homework. Exams are only eight months away, after all." She sighed, a slightly dreamy expression coming over her, "I do so love Hallowe'en. Which brings me to the matter at hand: Harry, Ron, and I have to go now."

"What?" asked Harry.

"What?" asked Ron.

"I said that already," said Harry.

"Yeah, but, I was confused, too, right?" said Ron.

"I just don't think it added much, is all. It was, what's it called... redundant."

"I think it's considered polite to say _learning disabled_ now, _actually_," said Ron primly, "and I don't care for your tone at all."

Hermione coughed.

"Right. Why were we leaving, Hermione?" Harry asked.

"For a very important _thing_ that we have to do _far over there_," she said, pointing frantically to the far corner of the Great Hall. "You know? The _thing_?"

"Uh, nope, Hermione, sorry," Ron said. "I think you've lost a marble or ten. I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh, just _get up and walk_, Weasley, Potter, or I swear I'll... I'll... I'll _think of something_," she threatened. "and _mark my words_: I am _very good_ at thinking of things. Very, _very_ good. Bwa, ha, ha."

"Did you just say _Bwa ha ha_?" Harry asked.

"Pardon," Hermione said. "I appear to have caught the hiccups."

"Only that didn't sound like a hiccup," Ron said. "It was more of a, you know, evil laugh, sort of thing."

"Nope, it was a hiccup. What would an eleven year old girl be doing laughing evilly? I hiccupped. I even covered my mouth and everything."

"Only... only, aren't you twelve?" asked Ron.

"Ron, mate," Harry whispered. "I think we should just go with her. It's less painful that way."

"_Fine_," Ron muttered, and they stood up and walked away. Hermione kept glancing surreptitiously back at Milo and Hannah.

"Well," Milo said, taking a bite out of his Everlasting Rations. "That was... weird."

"Yeah, kinda," Hannah agreed evasively. "Anyway, about Hallowe'en tomorrow...?"

o—o—o—o

"He thinks he's so clever," Malfoy sneered. "He has _no idea_ what's coming to him."

"Yeah!" said Crabbe (or Goyle).

"Right!" said Goyle (or Crabbe, but you get the idea, right?)

"After the last one, he acted like he didn't care, but you could tell. Oh, man, _you could tell_, if you looked close. Real close," Malfoy said. "I got him, like, right to the core. Just wish I saw him read the paper."

"Yeah, we got him deep down," said Crabbe.

"Yeah, we got him so deep you'd need a Bubble-Head Charm to swim down there to see," said Goyle.

"Yeah, so deep you'd die from the pressure," said Crabbe.

"Okay, guys. Seriously, stop that," said Malfoy. "You aren't helping."

"Yeah, you're not helping, Goyle," said Goyle. Wait, Crabbe. Said Crabbe. Phew, close call.

"Yeah, you're just making things worse, Crabbe," said Goyle.

Draco rolled his eyes.

"This time," Draco said, "this time, it'll get him so bad he won't even be able to hide it. He'll be _begging_ for mercy. And you know what I'll do then?"

"Relent, as he's seen the error of his ways, and demonstrate your kind, forgiving personality?" suggested Goyle.

"Relent, and buy him a puppy," said Crabbe. "A fluffy one. So he doesn't feel so bad about losing."

Draco gave them a peculiar look. Seriously, what was _with_ these two?

"Nah, I'll kick 'im!" he cackled.

"Yeah!" said Crabbe.

"Yeah!" added Goyle, not wanting to feel left out. Goyle frowned, which made his forehead looked a little like Mount Etna would if it collapsed – slowly – and said, "So, boss, what's the plan?"

"The plan? _You want to know the plan_?"

"Yeah, boss, so's we can help," said Crabbe.

"Yeah, boss, so's we can... know the plan," said Goyle.

"I'll tell you the plan! It'll all go down tomorrow," Draco said. "Do you know what day it is tomorrow?"

"Uh," said Crabbe. "Thursday?"

"No!" shrieked Malfoy. "Well, actually, yes. Tomorrow is Thursday. But that's not what's important!"

"Uh," said Goyle. "Friday?"

"No!" shrieked Malfoy. "Wait... what? Look, Goyle, I _just said_ that tomorrow is Thursday. Surely even you... I mean, _really?_"

"Well, you also said it wasn't what was important, so I thought, maybe the _important_ thing about tomorrow is that, while it's Thursday, it's really Friday. You know?"

"Uh," said Malfoy. "No... not... really..." he frowned. "Look, guys, we're getting off topic. It's not about the day of the week, okay?"

"Oh! Oh! I love this game," said Goyle. "Is it smaller than a breadbox?"

"Uh. Well, kinda, I guess, in an abstract sort of sense, tomorrow is _bigger_ than a breadbox... wait, no! We're not playing Twenty Questions! Just... just... just guess, okay? It's like, really obvious. Here's a hint, even. Today's the Thirtieth of October, so tomorrow is..."

"Friday!" said Crabbe.

"You're fired. You're both fired."

"The Thirty-First!" said Goyle.

"_Yes!_" Malfoy resisted, barely, the temptation to fist-pump. "And what happens every year on October Thirty-First?"

"Hallowe'en!" said Crabbe.

"_NO!_ Well, actually, yeah, again, kinda. But once again, you're right but completely wrong! Tomorrow morning is the Northwestern Regional Semi-Finals for the UK Quidditch League!"

"Bwa ha ha!" Crabbe cackled.

"Mwa ha ha!" Goyle cackled, too.

o—o—o—o

"I'm confused," Ron admitted.

"Well, there's a surprise. Look," Milo explained, "a sidequest is a short adventure at most tangentially related to the major events of the story used primarily for character development."

"Character development?" asked Ron.

"Yeah. Getting hauls of XP, magic items, and gold, and thus making your character more powerful, or _developed_. Character development."

Harry frowned. "Look, unlike you two, I actually went to primary school, and I'm fairly certain that's not actually what character development means."

"Irregardless," Milo began.

"Not a word," Harry muttered.

"Says the boy on the _Quidditch_ team. _Anyways_, regardless — there, happy? — of the meaning of character development, sidequests are brief excursions, more focussed on a single idea, generally simpler, and also where most of the best loot comes from."

"And that's why you're going on a date with the cute blonde?" asked Fred (or George, but we're not starting _this_ again, okay?).

"Not a date. A _sidequest_," corrected Milo. He, Ron, Harry, and the Weasley twins were sitting in a corner in the Common Room. Milo had planned to co-ordinate his Hallowe'en schedule with them, so that they'd all know where the others would be at any given time (for when, inevitably, disaster struck) but the conversation had taken an unexpected turn when he'd filled them in on his conversation with Hannah.

"On a secluded, dare I say, _private_ walk around the Hogwarts lake," said George, "where, being right out in the open, of course, everyone can see you."

"Yeah. An adventure past a body of water filled to the brim with monsters of every sort," said Milo.

"Ah, _I_ see," Fred said knowingly. "So you can protect the fair maiden, eh?"

"Well, if I have to. She's a witch, though, should be more than competent at defending herself."

"I think, Fred," said George, "that he's not really getting into the spirit of things."

"I'm forced to agree, George," said Fred.

"She said she wanted to talk to me alone for a while," Milo shrugged. "So I just assumed she had some critical information she has to pass along, or possibly a magic item. For all I know, she'll give me a quest."

"Maybe she has some _sensitive information_, if you know what I... ah, nevermind, you know?" said Fred.

"Yeah, it's just not working. He seems to be immune to teasing," admitted George. "Such a shame."

"A missed opportunity."

"A wasted chance."

"A moment passed, never to return."

"Such a shame."

"No, we actually said that one, already," said Fred.

"Ah, nuts," said George. "And here I was, getting all Zen."

"Well, one way or another," Fred said, "I think you're going to have a very interesting Hallowe'en."

o—o—o—o

Quirrell paced back and forth irritably in his office. He just had to _think_. There must be some way to get rid of that boy... how did he know? How could he _possibly_ know that the Dark Lord was returning? _Dumbledore must have told him, _Quirrell thought. _No... that explains nothing. How could Dumbledore himself know?_

And the boy had just _told him_. He'd just come out and said it was _obvious_. Obvious! To anyone with half a brain! He'd even named his three friends as accomplices... Was it a trap? A test of some sort? Perhaps the boy had been bluffing, trying to gauge Quirrell's reaction?

Irregardless, it didn't matter. The boy had to die. Snape would make things difficult, though... he seemed to know, somehow. _The only times the accursed Potions Master isn't watching the boy,_ Quirrell thought, _he's watching me_. _He must be trying to protect the boy... they're all in it together. That's what they were doing out in the forest... Snape went out to meet Milo in the Forbidden Forest, to discuss how to stop me. It's too much of a coincidence to be anything else. They must think they're so clever, but if they were _really_ clever they wouldn't have let me notice. No, they weren't half as sneaky as they thought. Well, it'll all happen tomorrow, if everything goes according to plan... No. No, there's no _if _about it._

"_A Power He Knows Not..._" Quirrell heard the horrible, hissing voice say behind him.

"W-w-what was that, Master?"

"_Nothing that need concern you_," the voice lashed out at him, like a cobra. Then the pain started.

It would be a long night for Quirrell.


	9. Chapter 9: Hallowe'en

When Milo walked downstairs Hallowe'en morning, he was greeted by utter bedlam:

"I—I never thought this day would come," said Seamus. "Me mum always said it would, but... I guess I never really believed her."

"Well, I, mean, it's surprising, but really, we've been ready for it," said Ron.

"I say it's about time it happened," said Fred.

"Keeps us from having to live out the rest of our lives in suspense, just waiting for it to come," said George.

"I... I lost everything," said Lee Jordan soberly. "Everything."

"What happened?" asked Milo. "Did Vol—did You-Know-Who return?"

"What?" asked Fred. "You've lost it, mate, it's nothing like that—"

"—Although to some, like our dear Lee here, it's arguably _worse_—" continued George.

"—Teaches him to bet the farm on a sure thing—"

"—Don't be snide, you're only happy because it's your farm, now—"

"—Our farm, Fred, _our_ farm—"

"Look, guys," Milo interrupted. "Can one of you just give me a straight answer?"

"I am led to believe," said Hermione Granger, sitting casually in an armchair, "that the Chudley Cannons went up against the Wigtown Wanderers this morning and actually _won_."

"Wait, and this is supposed to be important?" Milo asked.

"Blimey, _important_, mate!" said Ron, "That was the _Northwestern Regional Semi-Finals!_"

"So, to answer your question, _apparently,_" said Hermione.

"The Cannons haven't won a match in decades!" Ron exclaimed. "Their fan club, back when they had a fan club that is, well, its motto was _Let's all just keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best_."

"Yawn," stated Milo. "Anyways, I have a sidequest to prepare for—and, for that matter, classes."

"Speaking of," Hermione said coyly, "what are you going to dress up as?"

"I don't actually have to _do_ that, do I?" Milo asked.

"Oh, my, yes," said Hermione. "It's a prerequisite."

Well, that settled it. You can't ignore prerequisites. You can bend them, re-interpret them favourably, work around them, or barrel your way on through them, but you _can't_ ignore them. Milo sighed.

"Okay," he said. "So I'll survive all my classes, stop a dark vampire wizard from returning from the dead, foil an evil professor's schemes, and make a Hallowe'en costume before the start of my sidequest, which is at five o'clock sharp."

"Oh, before you go," Hermione said, as if she'd only just remembered, "make sure you take this with you. Wouldn't want you to be late for your... _sidequest_... with Ms. Abbot." She held out a small, pink strap of some sort. There was a sort of a doodad in the middle, Milo wasn't sure how to describe it.

"Er," he said, "thanks, I think. What is it?"

"You don't even know what a watch – no. No, I'm not saying it. It's called a watch, Milo, it tells the time."

"Go figure. How's it work?"

"There's two hands, the short one points to the hour, the long one points to the minute... only, it's the hour times five. It's a bit complicated. Here..."

She spent the next ten minutes trying to explain how the watch worked, before giving up and bewitching it. She assured him that it would remind him when it was time to leave, and there would be no possible way for him to miss it. She then apologized, saying she had a bad case of hiccups coming on and fled the common room cackling. Milo had read that the Muggles here had a ridiculous stereotype of witches, flying around in broomsticks with mad hair cackling away under a full moon. _Turns out all stereotypes really _are _grounded in fact somewhere down the line_, he thought. _Go figure._

Milo was particularly wary when he went down to get breakfast. The other Gryffindors seemed absorbed in their discussion of the Cannons' latest victory, so they lingered behind. _At this rate_, he thought, _they'll miss their precious breakfast_.

Milo was vaguely aware that the food was sort of holiday themed (there was much orange and black in attendance), but as usual, stuck to his Everlasting Rations. As long as he had 'about a pound of decent food' per day, he'd be fine, and this was really just more convenient than all this _cutlery_ business.

"Oh, hey Milo," said a round-faced boy sitting next to him.

"Hey, Nev." Milo said. "What's new and relevant?"

"Well, I forgot where I left my Remembrall, I was wondering if you could do your trick...?"

"It's in your right pocket," Milo said.

"Wow! And I didn't even hear you cast it this time!" Neville said, grabbing the ball from his pocket. Like any other time it touched Neville's hands, it was glowing slightly red.

"I didn't. You always keep it in your right pocket."

"Oh, right—whoops!" the ball dropped out of his grasp, and fell towards the floor. The smoke in the glass ball turned black as soon it as left Neville's hands.

Milo reached to catch it, but with the distinct feeling of a failed Reflex Save, his fingers closed a second too late and he just wound up knocking it further away. It hit the cold stone floor and shattered all over the ground, but Milo was too distracted to care: in the instant that Milo's hands touched the ball, it glowed bright red. Brief as it was, there was no missing it. Before Milo could properly consider the problem, his thought process was interrupted.

"Had a little accident, have we?" Milo heard an all-too familiar voice.

"Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Coyle, Mr. Grabbe, pleased to see you," Milo said cheerfully.

"You know, after all that trouble Potter went through to get that ball back for you," Malfoy said to Neville with a sneer, "you'd think you'd take better care of it."

"Are you just here to exchange banter, or is this more than purely a social call?" Milo asked. "I'm on a schedule, you know."

"_Are you_, now?" Malfoy asked, his eyes suddenly alight. "The pressure starting to get to you? Distressed at seeing your plan fall all to pieces now, are we? I know what you're up to."

_What in the Hells is he _talking _about?_ Milo wondered.

"You can't prove anything," Milo said, because it seemed appropriate. "And even if you could, you can _never_ stop phase three," Milo said. He liked the sound of that _phase three_. It implied that there had already been not one, but _two_ successful phases in whatever it was that Malfoy thought he was up to. Malfoy looked him up and down, closely.

"You're bluffing," Malfoy determined.

"Of course I am," Milo said. "Everything I said to you today was already a lie. Except this, of course." Milo leaned in close, and whispered, "or _is_ it?"

Malfoy looked briefly perplexed, but recovered admirably.

"You act all tough," he said, "but _I know where you really come from_," he hissed. "And I know what you're trying to do. But it'll never work. My father's much too clever, and has too many friends, for it to work."

..._What?_

"Oh, we'll see about that," Milo said. _If I keep him talking, maybe he'll let something else slip._

"Indeed we shall," said Malfoy. "Why don't you just ask your friends in the Wigtown Wanderers what they think, eh? See if they've still got your back _now_," Malfoy laughed and walked away, flanked by his goons.

"Well, that was weird," Milo said to Neville.

"I think it's really cool how you stand up to Malfoy," Neville said. "And, listen, are you going to eat your treacle tart? Can't remember where mine went."

"What? No, it's all yours," Milo said absently.

"Thanks," said Neville from around the tart.

"So, say Neville, any decent ideas for a Hallowe'en costume? Only apparently I need one for later this evening," Milo said. "It's got to look like a monster, but also allow enough movement that I can fight off _actual_ monsters in it, if the need arises. Which it will, I'm sure of it. And I need easy access to my Belt of Hidden Pouches. No ideas, huh? That's cool, I'll think of something."

It occurred to Milo that Neville wasn't responding.

Milo glanced over at the boy, who was now slouched over the table, his face lying flat in a pumpkin pie.

"That's odd," Milo said as he looked around the Great Hall for help; but was surprised to find that, now that Malfoy had left, it was empty. _What?_ He wondered. _How is that even possible? This place is _never _empty..._ Frantically, Milo reached into his Belt of Hidden Pouches and grabbed his small vial of Antitoxin.

"Right, Nev, we got to get you to the Hospital Wing. Upsie-Daisy," he said, pouring the Antitoxin down Neville's throat. It wasn't an antidote by any means, but it should help somewhat. He attempted to lift the (fairly heavy) boy, but failed to have much success. "Agh! Curse this 8 Strength! There's no helping it, _Levitate_." _I'd hoped to get to the evening with all of my 2__nd__-level spell slots intact. Never seems to work that way, does it?_

Neville floated gently off the floor, and Milo gave him a solid push in the general direction of the door. He followed along, pushing Neville occasionally to keep him moving. Once he made it to the corridor, he broke into a run.

"Out of my way!" he shouted, scattering a bunch of students Milo didn't recognize. _Probably Hufflepuffs, then_. Neville was floating in front of him, looking decidedly unhealthy. The boy was shaking and growing increasingly pale as Milo pushed him along in front of him.

_Why was the Great Hall empty?_ Milo wondered. _How could that happen?_

"Ickle wickle firsties," Milo heard an aggravating voice taunt from above. "Why is the ickle firstie floating? Are we using magic in the halls? Naughty, naughty firsties."

"I don't have time for this, Peeves!" Milo snarled, rounding a corner. "I think Neville could _die_, so don't try anything."

"Firsties always so _dramatic_," said the still-invisible poltergeist, "never see the joke, never see the laughs."

Milo decided to just ignore the taunting spectre. If he absolutely _had_ to, he could use a _Silent Image_ to chase him away with an image of the Baron again, but Milo really had to conserve his magic.

Milo, running at maximum speed and _decidedly _distracted (the most commonly forgotten -5 penalty to Spot checks known to man), never noticed the oil slick Peeves had placed in the corridor.

Milo slipped backwards, hitting his head on the floor. Neville, however, continued to float at Milo's running speed down the wrong corridor.

"PEEVES!" Milo shouted. "Come out and face me!"

"_Face_ you?" Peeves asked. "But of course!"

A cream pie (nobody knew where Peeves got them from; the house-elves stopped making cream pies two hundred and thirty five years ago to try and discourage him. It didn't work.) materialized out of thin air and hit Milo in the face.

"You're a coward, you know that?" Milo asked. "You're even scared of a _Silent Image_ of the Bloody Baron." Alright, it wasn't the smoothest sounding sentence ever, but Milo had to find some way to work _Silent Image_ into conversation without making it obvious he was casting a spell. An image of the Baron drifted towards them from around the corner.

"Lies and Tricks!" Peeves shouted. "Lies and Tricks! Lies and Lies and Lies and Tricks! The Baron is in the Dungeons!"

Milo was already late for Potions, and hed'd lost sight of Neville. Milo stood up and wiped the cream out of his face.

"Very well, Peeves, you leave me no choice but to destroy you," Milo said, lying through his teeth. "I call upon the fell arcane might of Corellon Larethian!" Corellon was the god of elves, but there was no _possible_ way that Peeves could know that. Milo, who still had an active and alterable _Silent Image_ available, made the Baron vanish and redirected the spell at himself. His eyes started to glow white, and thirteen slender columns of white fire appeared about him in slowly rotating circle. Milo had once seen a Meteor Storm cast by an epic Sorcerer, and it hadn't looked half so impressive as this.

"Magic in the halls! Magic in the halls! Filch!" Peeves called from wherever he was hiding.

"In the name of Corellon Larethian, God of... of _Doom_, I abjure thee!" Milo shouted. He threw in some illusory mist for atmosphere and made it appear as though a pair of giant, purple eyes slowly opened from behind him. Milo was making this up entirely as he went by now, and wasn't really sure what he would do if Peeves didn't run away. Fortunately, bravery was not the poltergeist's strong suit.

"No! No! No doom, no doom!" Peeves wailed, and fled. Milo dismissed the spell and ran after Neville.

o—o—o—o

"What," Madam Pomfrey asked as the cream-covered Milo entered her domain at the speed of sound, pushing a floating Neville Longbottom in front of him. "is the meaning of this?"

"Shouldn't... have... dumped... Constitution..." Milo panted between breaths.

"I'm sorry, what about the Constitution?" Pomfrey asked.

"Poison," Milo managed.

"You've poisoned the Constitution?" Pomfrey asked. "Isn't it, you know, a sheet of parchment?"

"Neville!" Milo sputtered. He _really_ needed to catch his breath; he felt like he was going to faint.

"You mean to suggest that _Neville_ poisoned the Constitution?"

Milo groaned. Why did this keep happening to him?

"Neville's... been... poisoned!"

"Oh, my lord! Why didn't you say so at once? Quick, get him on the cot!" The stern mediwitch grabbed her wand immediately and started casting what Milo presumed where diagnostic divinations.

"We were just in the Great Hall," Milo said. "He was having breakfast, then I turned around and found him face down in some pie. So I rushed him here as fast as I could."

"And the food made him float, did it? Most unusual..." Pomfrey said.

"What? No, I Levitated him," Milo said.

"Oh? Impressive. Now get out, so I can try and save his life without distractions. He'll probably wind up in St. Mungo's again... poor boy."

"Right," Milo said, and bolted from the room. He had to make it to the Dungeons in... negative twelve minutes. _Ah, Hells._

He eventually stumbled into the Potions class twenty minutes late, still covered in cream and bits of pie crust, drenched in sweat, and gasping for air.

"You're late," Snape said shortly, "by twenty-one minutes. Twenty-one points from Gryffindor, and detention this evening immediately after your Defence Class."

"But... Peeves..." Milo started to say, but immediately knew it was the wrong choice of words. Peeves hadn't been an acceptable excuse for tardiness for years. Snape just shook his head silently, then went back to berating Harry for his latest minor mistake.

Milo groaned. He hadn't been awake for an hour and he'd already lost twenty-one House Points and two of his very limited number of spells per day. And now he'd have to suffer the humiliation of utterly failing to make a potion again. _Well, there's nothing else to do_, he thought, _than follow the directions on the chalk board and hope for the best_. _Sigh._

Malfoy gave him a smug look.

"Hey, Ron," Milo whispered, "where was everyone during breakfast?"

"Well, most of the Gryffindors were too busy caught up talking about the Cannons' latest victory to bother eating, and I imagine it was more-or-less the same with the other Houses."

"But Hermione loathes Quidditch, why didn't she come down?"

"I can't say for sure," Ron said slyly, "but I _think_ she was enjoying making snide remarks too much to leave."

"And Neville? He was there."

"Dunno, mate," Ron admitted.

"Nev was rushed to St. Mungo's yesterday," Harry supplied, "after one of Fred and George's pranks got out of hand. I guess he only just got back. Where is he, anyway?"

"Poisoned," Milo said simply.

"No talking!" Snape snapped. "Five points from each of you."

Hermione groaned. Gryffindor was rapidly approaching zero points, and it was largely their fault.

The rest of Potions was uneventful, with the exception that Snape seemed incredibly pleased with himself. _If he were a normal human_, Milo thought, _he'd probably be humming to himself._ As it stood, he was simply sneering just a little less – not that this made him any more pleasant to be around.

Milo ran his fingers through his hair nervously as he left the Dungeons. Detention after Defence class... well, the class normally ran until three, but Quirrell had said he had something special planned for his Hallowe'en lesson. _That should still leave me with plenty of time to make my costume for five, assuming Snape doesn't go overboard._

Milo paused.

_My plan relies on Snape's mercy._

_Crap._

"We've got half an hour before Transfiguration," Harry said from behind him. "Want to visit Nev?"

"What?" Milo asked distractedly. "Why?"

"Uhm," said Harry. "Because he's our friend? And he's sick?"

"Oh, right, yeah. Friendship. Let's go, then."

o—o—o—o

"Nah, really, it's fine," Neville said, lying on his hospital bed. "Actually, it's a shame it wasn't more severe."

"What? Why?" Harry asked.

"Well, it's just that if I go to St. Mungo's one more time, I get a free ice cream," Neville said. Harry chuckled.

"So, what happened, anyway?" Potter asked.

"Madam Pomfrey says I ingested lethal quantities of arsenic, deadly nightshade, cyanide, chlorine, and ricin this morning," the round-faced boy explained.

Harry gave a low whistle.

"I don't even know what half of those even _are_," he admitted.

"It's no problem at all," Neville said. "Madam Pomfrey says that as soon as I regain feeling in my limbs, I can go back to class."

"Why would anyone want to poison you, Nev?" Harry asked.

"They weren't trying to poison him," Milo said simply. "They were trying to poison _me_. What's more, I know who did it."

"What? Who?" Harry asked.

"Huh, that's unusual. The scene's supposed to change after I make a dramatic announcement like that."

Harry blinked.

"Oh. We should head to Transfiguration, or we'll be late and lose more points."

"Right."

o—o—o—o

As it turned out, they were late anyways.

"Two points from Gryffindor," McGonagall said sternly. The rest of the class sat down and attempted, with varying levels of success, to turn pumpkins into teapots. Milo, however, was given the same matchstick he'd had at the start of the year.

"I can't let you start on teapots until you've managed to transfigure more than just the colour of the stick, young man. I'm sorry," she explained, then sighed. "If you can manage to change its weight, sound—that is, the sound it makes when dropped—_or_ shape _at all_," she added, "then I'll let you move on."

Milo frantically pulled out his spellbook and re-read the description of _Prestidigitation_. There was nothing in there about anything beyond colour. He bit his lip. There was a sewing needle in his Belt of Hidden Pouches, but Milo assumed that other students had tried to pull that one in the past and McGonagall probably had a way to tell the difference. He hadn't prepared _Ghost Sound_, which could create illusory sounds, but even if he had he probably couldn't get the timing right to make a _ping!_ sound at the exact moment the pin hit the table. If he'd prepared _Mage Hand_, a weak telekinesis spell, he could _maybe_ push down _very gently_ on the pin to simulate the metal's higher density, but his only 0th-level spells were _Dancing Lights_, _Prestidigitation_, and _Acid Splash_.

Milo ran his fingers through his hair nervously. There was absolutely no way he could turn this stick into a pin using his arcane magic. He had one last, desperate ploy...

He slowly withdrew his wand from its pocket and, following the directions that Milo had only ever half-listened to, focused on the image of a pin in his mind. He imagined every curve, the metallic glint, the _slightly_ heavier mass, and the steely sound a pin makes when dropped. With all of that in his mind he, very carefully, tapped the wand on the matchstick and held his breath. He closed his eyes.

_Come on, secret wizard powers, activate!_

He didn't _feel _anything happen, and very slowly opened one eye to peer at, hopefully, a shiny new pin.

Nothing had happened.

"Nuts," Milo muttered. It was probably for the best, though as he might have been stuck multiclassing into two primary casting classes—or in layman's terms, permanently magically handicapped. Milo could use the oil he kept in his Belt of Hidden Pouches to create a fire and sneak out in the ensuing chaos... no, these wizards could create water. Milo sighed. He raised his hand.

"Yes?" asked McGonagall.

"Professor," Milo said quietly, then stopped. He looked around at the other Gryffindors in the room. Harry was looking at him with an unreadable expression, Ron was trying to find his wand on the ground under his desk, and Hermione was studiously examining her newly-transfigured teakettle. He'd never been quite sure what they thought about him. Milo was certain none of them _completely_ believed his story about being from another world altogether, so they probably thought he was mad. Milo was okay with that. All the _really_ brilliant Wizards looked at least a little mad to outsiders. At times, they were impressed—_seriously_ impressed—with what he could do with magic. He was the only student below fourth year who could efficiently deal with Peeves, and his defeat of the Acromantula in September was very nearly legendary. His nightly _Scholar's Touch_-enhanced studying had made him the top student in _History of Magic_, much to Hermione's chagrin. But... other times, times when he didn't have the right spell prepared, times when he asked "what's Quidditch?", times when he'd run out of spells per day, times when Arcane magic just _couldn't do something_ – times like _this_, they just looked at him with pity.

"Yes?" the Professor asked.

But there was more at stake here than his own pride, although there was that, too. What would Mordenkainen—the legendary wizard, not the rat—say about this? What about Elminster, Treantmonk, and Otiluke? _Sorry, legendary wizards, it turns out I found another universe and their magic is superior to ours. Best put away your spellbooks, start naming your currency after sailing ships, and drop by Ollivanders for wands if you want to keep up._

But what _could_ he do? _Polymorph Any Object_ was _eighth level_. Eighth! Most Wizards never made it past 3rd-level spells. By the time Milo could turn this match into a pin, if he ever even got that high level, he'd be able to alter reality to his liking. He'd be going toe-to-toe with Wyrms.

_Even_ _Wizards can't do everything_, he reminded himself, _so there's no shame in admitting defeat_. _It takes a Cleric to heal... well, actually, a Wizard could just summon a monster that can heal people for him. It takes a Rogue to pick a lock... actually, that's not true, a Wizard could just cast _Knock_. Okay, a Rogue to sneak around... no, Wizards can cast _Invisibility_. _

_Ah, screw it. So maybe Wizards _can _do everything. But not all at once, not all in one day, not with only one Wizard, and not all at level three._

"I – I can't do it," Milo admitted bitterly. "I can't turn one thing into another like this. It just can't be done."

McGonagall remained silent for a moment, her eyes boring holes into his head.

"I see," she said simply. "Well then. Drop by my office after your Defence class and we'll decide what to do."

"I have, uh, prior arrangements," Milo confessed. The other students avoided making eye contact with him.

"Then cancel them," McGonagall said simply. "Your education must come first."

"You'll, ah, have to take that up with Professor Snape," Milo said. "I've got detention. Again."

McGonagall briefly covered her face with her hand.

"Very well. Come afterwards as soon as you can," she said, then left to go help Ron, who had only managed to transfigure his pumpkin into another pumpkin.

Milo then realized his mistake: there was still half an hour left to Transfiguration class, and it was going to be _awkward_ without anything to do. _Next time_, he thought,_ if there ever is a next time, never admit defeat without an exit strategy._

Milo spent the time trying to figure out what to use as his Hallowe'en costume, but hadn't made any progress by the time the Professor dismissed them for lunch.

"So," Harry asked him expectantly as they walked towards the Great Hall, "Who did it?"

"Did what, convinced the capricious, adolescent, vengeful, _petty_ being who runs the universe to make my life as difficult as possible? Me. It's my fault for trying to push Spontaneous Divination."

"You shouldn't talk like that," Hermione said. "You might offend someone."

"I think he's already pretty offended," Milo said. "That's sort of what I was getting at."

"What?" Hermione asked. "Wait, you think you offended God? Wait, _you believe in God?_"

"Wha?" Milo asked. "Gods? Sure, there's loads of 'em. Not believing in them is like not believing in magic. In fact, it's _exactly_ like not believing in magic—ask a Cleric."

"Wait, no, I meant—" Hermione began as they entered the Great Hall, but Harry, uncharacteristically, cut her off.

"And _I _meant, who poisoned Neville?" Harry said. Milo waited to respond until they'd approached the person he was looking for. Milo crept up directly behind him

"_Draco Malfoy_," Milo said, simultaneously to answer Harry's question and get Malfoy's attention.

"Oh, it's you," said the blond Slytherin, jumping slightly. "What do you wa—"

"This morning Neville Longbottom was poisoned," Milo cut him off. "It was by someone attempting to get at me. Someone, probably, with access to Snape's storerooms, someone with an inexplicable grudge against me, someone with access to my food, and someone _stupid_ enough not to watch me long enough to realize I never eat any food offered me."

"What are you blabbering on ab—" Malfoy began, but was cut off again.

"That would narrow it down to a limited list of suspects, but you even practically told me who did it. You arrogantly bragged _something_ about the Quidditch game, frankly I wasn't really listening, but you seemed to think a victory for the Wrongton Wunderbars, or whatever, was a problem for me. So I thought, _what made you think I care about Quidditch?_ And realized, nothing. You _knew _I don't care about Quidditch, no, you wanted the Great Hall empty this morning. So the _ridiculously_ circuitous plot that your twisted brain invented was to somehow rig the Quidditch Midwestern Final Pseudo-Regionals so that _all the students in Hogwarts_ would be so busy being flabbergasted about their beloved Cuddly Cannons losing that they'd skip breakfast. All the students except for _me_, that is – me and Neville, who came in from St. Mungo's. And so you poisoned my treacle tart where there would be no-one to help me. Draco Malfoy, _you tried to poison me_. And you would have gotten away with it, if it wasn't for my Everlasting Rations. And the fact that you came by to gloat in the middle of the assassination attempt. I mean, _seriously_."

"He had me up until 'Wrongton Wunderbars,'" Ron said quietly to Harry.

"It was the Pseudo-Regionals that got me," admitted the Harry.

"_Cuddly Cannons_," Hermione laughed. An uncharitable person would call the sound she made a giggle, because while it was still politically correct to have giggling girls in a piece of literature in 1991, this is no longer the case.

Malfoy stared at Milo completely disbelievingly for a moment, then laughed. His laugh was like a Wizard's power progression by level: it started slow and weak enough to lose a fair fight with a cat on occasion, worked its way up gradually to defeating, with some difficulty, Hobgoblins and Bugbears, then in the snap of a finger was suplexing the laws of physics and ruling the universe before breakfast.

"You seriously think I tried to _poison_ you? Milo, if my family wanted you dead, you wouldn't still be standing here. And besides, that's not why I rigged the Quidditch game, and you know it."

"Wait, he _actually_—" said Ron, flabbergasted.

"This whole wild accusation is just to divert attention from the blow I struck to your _real_ masters," Malfoy sneered, "and only serves to underscore your own defeat. _Fool_." With that, Draco spun on his heels, and started walking away. Then he paused, and turned around. "Actually, this is _my _table. Gryffindor's is back over there. _You _leave."

o—o—o—o

"Crap," Milo muttered when they got back to their table. "I was pretty sure, like, 70% _at least_, that it was Malfoy who did it."

"I dunno," Ron said. "I still think it could have been him."

"Nah," Milo said. "If it was, he either would have denied _everything_, or fessed up and challenged me to an honour duel or something. He admitted to being behind the Quidditch thing, so it can't have been him."

"So what _was _he trying to do? What did he mean by 'your real masters?'" Harry asked.

"Who knows? Who cares?" Milo shrugged. "Anybody want my treacle tart?"


	10. Chapter 10: Odds of Survival

Author's Notes: Hallowe'en was originally going to be a three-part chapter, but it's stretched out to four parts now (I had way too much fun with this). Thanks to all of my readers! My inbox is flooded with hundreds of fanfiction subscription and favourite alerts, which make me very, very happy indeed.

And remember: if you like it, review it! I try to read them all.

o—o—o—o

"So, if it wasn't Draco who poisoned Neville," Harry asked Milo as they sat down at their Defence Against the Dark Arts desks, "who was it?" Harry had been trying to get Milo to speak throughout their whole History of Magic class, but Hermione kept shushing him (talking in History carried across the whole room, not that the ghost of Binns noticed or apparently cared).

"I don't know, yet," Milo confessed. "But there's one thing I _do_ know."

"What's that?" Harry asked.

"It was someone on your list," Milo said. "Adding a whole new character _now_ who poisoned Neville would ruin any element of mystery. It has to be someone we met in the first two adventures."

"Just once, you're going to use logic based on actual facts," said Hermione primly, "and all the trees on Earth will wither and die."

The class filed in gradually in groups of two or three. Quirrell's course was basically a joke, so punctuality wasn't exactly a top priority for most students—Quirrell hardly ever deducted House Points for tardiness. The Gryffindors were _marginally_ more excited today than usual, because rumour had it that Quirrell had been preparing something special for today, it being Hallowe'en and all.

"I-I-I-I've been p-p-p-preparing s-something sp-sp-special for t-today," Quirrell announced when the last of the students arrived, "it being H-Hallowe'en and all—or, as s-s-some n-now call it, _Harry P-P-Potter Day_." There was, Milo thought he noticed, a hint of a sneer in Quirrell's voice. Milo had to agree with Quirrell: Harry Potter Day was a pretty silly name, especially compared to something as cool as 'All Hallow's Eve.' Quirrell was standing in front of something massive and mostly rectangular, covered by a sheet of canvas.

Harry muttered something under his breath.

"Sorry, what was that?" Hermione whispered quietly.

"Should be Lily and James Potter Day," Harry answered simply. "I don't even remember it."

"B-b-but before we b-begin," Quirrell said, "I'd l-like to ask y-y-young M-M-Milo something," Milo perked up as he heard his name. "I'd heard th-that you've b-b-been losing a g-great deal of the n-n-noble House G-Gryiffindor's P-P-Points lately," he said across the classroom. There were a few chuckles, and a number of angry looks. "I-I-I was w-w-wondering if y-y-you m-m-might like an opportunity to earn s-s-some b-back?"

Whatever could have possessed a person with a crippling stutter to get a job which required lecturing large groups of people on a daily basis escaped Milo. Milo shrugged.

"Sure," he said. "Anything for the House, after all. Have to win the House Medal and all that."

"Cup," Ron whispered.

"Cup Medal, that is." Milo corrected himself, wondering what Quirrell was getting at.

"Excellent," Quirrell said. "C-c-come see m-me after c-c-class, then."

Milo nervously ran his fingers through his hair. Was there _anyone_ who wasn't going to want to see him this evening? This was something of an opportunity, though—Milo could just go to whatever Quirrell's thing was, then let _him_ deal with the fallout from Snape. _If anyone can stand up to Snape,_ Milo thought, _it's Quirrell_._ I like the cut of his jib._

Quirrell's 'something special' for Hallowe'en turned out to be rather awesome, in the sense that it was something that evoked awe.

"A-and w-w-without further ado," Quirrell stammered excitedly to the class, "allow m-m-me to p-p-present my H-H-Hallowe'en surprise!" With a dramatic flourish, he pulled off the tarp, revealing, as it turned out, a cage of monstrous proportions. The bars were made of thick steel wrapped in unpleasant-looking razor wire. Hanging from the cage was an almost cartoonishly-oversized lock, though Milo was certain that there were likely layers of Abjurations protecting the cage not visible to the naked eye. The cage emanated an entirely non-magical aura of immobility and intimidation. _Nothing_ short of the Tarrasque itself was getting out of that cage. It wasn't the cage, however, that caused the collective gasp of fear from the Gryffindors—the house noted for its bravery—but what lay inside.

"_Blimey_," said Ron quietly. "It's a Troll."

"A Giant," Milo corrected.

"Right," Ron whispered. "A Giant Troll."

Milo sighed. The brute inside was very clearly a Giant. Trolls, unlike Giants, were green and sort of... weirdly proportioned, with long dangly limbs and spiky black hair. _This_ was obviously some non-core species of Giant—simple enough to prove with a dagger, as only Trolls could regenerate.

"Th-th-this is a T-T-Troll," Quirrell stammered to the class, "The G-Groundskeeper and I c-caught it in the F-F-Forb-Forb... in the Forest. It appears to have b-b-been h-harassing the unicorns."

"Excuse me, Professor," asked a Gryffindor NPC (probably Seamus) "I thought that was werewolves?"

"W-werewolves aren't f-f-fast enough," said Quirrell. _And they're only active on full moons_, Milo thought irritably. _I mean, _seriously. _What's the _one _defining characteristic of a werewolf? _It turns into a wolf on the full moon.Only_ the full moon_. _Sheesh._ "And T-T-Trolls, b-believe me, are f-faster than they l-l-look. N-now, there's n-n-no need to w-worry about the T-T-Troll getting out," he continued, "as this c-cage is very n-nearly indestructible. The w-w-wire you see is, in addition to b-b-being very sh-sharp, b-bewitched to entangle a-anyone trying to g-g-get out. A-a-anyone who t-t-touches the lock w-without the k-key—kept in the H-H-Headmaster's Office—will be struck by a F-F-Full Body B-B-Bind and trigger an a-alarm. The b-b-bars themselves are Goblin-made, and c-can withstand anything short of D-D-Dragonfire. There are a f-f-few other s-s-surprises as w-w-well. Q-quite f-f-fortunate we h-had it on h-h-hand, in f-f-fact. N-n-now, who c-c-can tell me w-w-what Trolls eat?"

Quirrell continued into a detailed lecture (in fact, significantly more detailed than his usual lectures, which were generally considered 80-minute long naptimes. Everyone's had at least one teacher like him) about Trolls. He seemed quite enthusiastic on the subject, not unlike a Fighter asked about pointy sticks.

As the class came to a close and three o'clock approached, Quirrell dismissed the rest of the students a little early to enjoy their Hallowe'en evenings.

"M-M-Milo?" Quirrell asked. _Right, he wanted me to stay after. Almost forgot about that._

"So," Milo said as he walked towards the alleged Troll. "What can I do you for?"

"Th-this fellow," Quirrell said, pointing to the monstrous humanoid in the cage. "W-we have to m-m-move him t-to the d-d-dungeons until the M-M-Ministry can d-deal with him."

Milo sized up the brute.

"Ah," he said. "Look, I know they say I'm good at Levitating things, but _this_..."

"Oh, d-d-don't worry," said Quirrel. "The c-cage is S-Self Levitating. H-however, it's e-easiest to p-p-push it from the b-b-back," he said, pointing to a small area on the cage not covered in razor-sharp wire, "but then I c-can't see where I'm g-g-going. So, if you could p-p-push it, I can l-l-lead? H-H-Hagrid helped me b-bring it here, b-but he's b-b-busy now."

"Sounds like a design flaw to me," Milo said. "But sure, I can lend a hand."

Quirrell smiled. There was no warmth whatsoever in his expression. Milo gave the cage a light push, and it drifted in front of him with surprisingly little effort. He was reminded of his brief adventure with Neville that morning, pushing the cage after Quirrell. The Giant inside seemed more perplexed than frightening as Milo guided the cage down the ever-shifting hallways of Hogwarts, only half paying attention to his surroundings. Quirrell was right—it really _was _impossible to see from behind this brute. Every so often, Quirrell called out a direction to him. Milo wondered briefly why Hogwarts had such a cage—it looked reasonably new, and could likely hold something quite a bit _bigger_ than its current occupant—before remembering who the residents of the Forbidden Forest were.

"So," Milo asked, more to make conversation than anything, "this is who we were looking for in the forest?"

"L-l-looks like," Quirrell said from the other side of the cage. "H-H-Hagrid caught him covered in u-u-unicorn blood. W-w-we'll know f-f-for sure if the u-u-unicorns stop d-d-disappearing."

"Go figure," Milo said. "I sort of thought it would have been one of the Death Eaters, or Snape."

"W-w-why?" asked Quirrell.

"Isn't it obvious? Well, we know You-Know-Who is returning, right? But he's supposed to have died, and you guys don't have Clerics or _Wish_."

"Clerics? Wish?" Quirrell asked.

"Where I come from, death is pretty cheap. _Well_, not cheap, exactly, but with enough diamonds and the right spellcaster, pretty much anyone can be brought back from the dead in some form. Clerics are the best at it by far, but a Wizard like me can pull it off, too, with some difficulty." Milo explained.

"_You can do this?_ You can bring back the dead?" Quirrell asked sharply.

"Not yet, but maybe in a few years at this rate. Unlike back home, there's only a few methods available to you people for cheating death that I could find in the Hogwarts Library—_Scholar's Touch_ is _so_ broken!—and those methods were as follows: Flamel's Stone, Unicorn's Blood, and becoming a vampire."

"Go on," Quirrell urged.

"In order of preference, the order is probably the Stone first, then the blood, and lastly becoming a vampire. There wasn't much I could find on any of these subjects—they're probably in the forbidden areas in the library, or books written by authors whose names start with letters after F—but from what I can tell, there's no mention of a cure for Vampirism, so it'd be a last resort. All I could find about the unicorns was that whoever drank their blood would be cursed to living a 'half-life,' which is cryptic as a crypt tick but sounds at least halfway better than total unlife."

"So, why not simply assume he's after the Stone?"

"Oh, he is, of course. Dumbledore's supposedly guarding it, but there's about a million and a half problems with _that —_he runs a school, and he's chief whatever of the thingamajig, and Supreme Muggle of the other thing. He can't be on guard twenty-four hours a day like an orc in a ten-by-ten room guarding a treasure chest. So in practice, the staff of Hogwarts are defending it, and while Dumbledore is this legendary wizard, you aren't. I mean, you and McGonagall clearly know what you're doing, and while you're a match for his minions, if you could take You-Know-Who, you would have last time. But here's the thing: You-Know-Who is weak right now, or he'd already be Dark Lord of the world already."

"That he would."

" What's more, he's _politically_ crippled—Hells, even the _Malfoys_ have publically renounced him. He can't storm the castle personally, and he doesn't have enough minions to do it for him outright. He probably only has a handful of loyal Death Eaters left, and _they're_ all vying for who's going to be top guy when You-Know-Who returns. He might not even know about their _existence_."

"Not all of his servants are Death Eaters, boy."

"Really? I thought that was just the catch-all term for it here."

"Interesting. What does this have to do with unicorns?" Quirrell asked. His voice sounded somewhat hoarse.

"_You _would know more than anyone else, Professor," Milo said. There was a brief silence, and Milo heard a rustling of robes. "Vampires, Professor, _vampires_! There's only three ways for him to return, and they've _all_ been mentioned in the story. _Three_ ways, a pretty significant number, if you ask me. So, there's likely followers going for the Stone, the Blood, and rounding up friendly vampires as we speak. _You're_ a trained combat wizard, Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts at the best school in the country, and pretty clearly high level. And yet, even _you_ got captured by vampires—so, unless they were the vampire of Merlin himself, your captors had to have help from a wizard. A Good wizard wouldn't help vampires, so it had to have been an Evil one—maybe _working for You-Know-Who_. So, one of his minions has more than likely succeeded in rounding up some poor sucker, no pun intended, to vamp our Dark Lord. That means that another minion, if he wants to top the first one, has to one-up vampires. That means unicorns, because the Stone is too well defended. The dead unicorns would have implied that the second, at least, was successful, and You-Know-Who can return, if he hasn't already, in some sort of limited form. That it was this Giant sort of throws a wrench in my thinking, to be honest. Means we have to be even more careful about Snape getting the Stone."

"_Snape_?" Quirrell asked, surprised.

"I'm surprised you hadn't put it together. Snape's after the Stone for _sure_. He's probably one of those minions I was telling you about, and You-Know-Who doesn't even know he _exists_. Or he does know. Or he _is_ You-Know-Who in disguise. Amounts to the same thing, really. So we have to be on the lookout for Snape."

"Why," Milo heard an unfortunately-familiar voice, "do you have to be _on the lookout_ for me, exactly? Is it because you're skipping detention?"

_Ah, nuts._

"Ah, ah, no Professor," Milo stammered. "I was just helping the Professor—the other Professor—with this Giant, and we were going to the dungeon anyways, so I was just going to see you right after."

"Interesting," said Snape. "Because you're heading in completely the wrong direction. This is the third floor—the dungeon is _that _way." _Why has Quirrell become so attached to the boy?_ Snape thought. _He must know what I'm up to, and he's trying to prevent me from having him expelled for Lucius. What's his game? Is he after the Stone?_

"The b-b-boy is with m-_me,_ Severus," Quirrell said fiercely. _Why has Severus become so attached to the boy?_ Quirrell thought. _He must know what I'm up to, and he's trying to prevent me from feeding the boy to Hagrid's dog. What's his game? Is he after the Stone?_

"Is he, now?" Snape asked. "I'm afraid I have prior arrangements with him."

"He c-c-can have his d-detention later. I n-need him _now_, this is of upmost i-importance," Quirrell maintained.

"_Discipline_ is what's important, Quirinus," Snape pressed. Milo wondered why it was so important to Snape that he get Milo for detention... _oh_, Milo realized suddenly. _He's going to kill me. I'll just ready a _Glitterdust—_wait, no, that didn't work so well last time. I'll just be on my guard, and not get caught flat-footed. Hopefully Quirrell can get rid of him._

"Th-th-the Troll is what's m-most important. You c-can have him a-afterwards."

"Milo," Snape commanded, "come with me at once. You have detention; this transparent method of escaping it shames your house and our school. Come with me, or I'll see to it that you're expelled."

Quirrell ground his teeth in frustration, but couldn't think of any way to prevent the boy from going with Snape without compromising his cover. Quirrell would pay for this soon, when no-one was around. He'd already failed his master too many times...

"Sorry, Professor Quirrell," Milo said sadly. "I suppose you'll have to manage for yourself—maybe you can find a House Elf to help? I'll... well, I'll see you around." Sweating profusely, Milo followed Snape towards the dungeons, away from his perceived protector. Their every footstep, made by Snape's polished loafers and Milo's worn adventurer's boots, rang through the empty corridors. Even the normally garrulous wall portraits were uncharacteristically reticent. Milo took the opportunity to plan his defence, should Snape make his move.

_Opening move, he'll be expecting a surprise round, but I know he's coming,_ Milo thought. _Then it'll be a test of reflexes. If I lose, he draws his wand as a move action and uses the Killing Curse as a Standard. I die. If I open with _Glitterdust_, and he makes his save, I die. If I open with _Glitterdust_ and he fails his save—or, for that matter, I use _Invisibility—_but he beats my 50% concealment, I die. If I open with _Mirror Image_, I have an effective 50%-80% miss chance, meaning I only have a 20%-50% chance of dying._ Mirror Image _it is, then, followed by an expeditious retreat of a non-magical nature_.

Milo licked his lips nervously as they rounded the last corner before Snape's office. He didn't like those odds, and if he _did _die, his chance of getting a _Resurrection_ seemed slim. These wizards couldn't bring back the dead, and his party members back home wouldn't know he'd died. It was more than likely, he realized, that death here would be _permanent_.

Gulp.

Snape opened the heavy wooden door to his office and led Milo in.

"I've noticed that you've been falling behind in Potions lessons," Snape said slowly to Milo. "And it seemed to me that you could use some... _extra help_."

So, Snape was going to kill Milo during a remedial Potions lesson and what, make it look like an accident? Milo wondered why the pretense was even necessary. It wasn't as if there were any witnesses.

"I, ah, just don't seem to have a knack for it," Milo admitted.

"Indeed," Snape grinned slightly. "So, why don't we start with something _extremely_ basic? One that it is quite _impossible_ for anyone with a drop of magical blood to fail at?"

"Sure, sure," Milo said distractedly. He was anxiously examining the room for hidden traps, and felt a brief pang of homesickness. Wellby, their Rogue, never missed a trap—or, more accurately, the traps never missed _him_. But at least they were always detected, one way or the other.

"So, why don't we begin?" Snape asked, and with a flourish of his wand, a pewter cauldron drifted slowly towards him from the side of the room. _So,_ Milo noticed, _Snape has Silent Spell. But why did he show me this? As intimidation?_ "All you have to do is pour in three ladles of ordinary water, one teaspoon of Flobberworm mucous, and one teaspoon of ordinary glycerol; then stir counterclockwise once. It is, literally, the simplest potion in existence. A newborn could accomplish it. It makes bubbles, and nothing else."

"Okay," Milo said. _Maybe Snape's idea is to keep my hands busy measuring so I can't go for my wand? Surely he knows by now that I don't really need it? It _will _make my Somatic components somewhat more difficult, however, although dropping an item is a free action. I'll play along, for now._ Milo carefully measured water out of a glass beaker and poured it into the cauldron, then reached for the Flobberworm mucous.

"Of course," Snape said as Milo worked, "a Muggle attempting to create the potion would experience an... _unfortunate_ side effect."

Milo's hand froze over the vial of mucous.

"R-really?"

o—o—o—o

Sprout sighed as she tried yet another spell to try to disenchant the singing pumpkin. Someone (well, clearly, it was the Weasley Twins, but without proof, they remained an as-yet unidentified "someone") had bewitched all of the decorative pumpkins on the second floor to sing "The Wheels on the Bus Go Round-and-Round," all at different keys and tempos. The consequent cucurbita cacophony was enough to drive even Peeves away.

"_Finite Incantatem!"_ she cast vainly. The vegetables were surprisingly resilient to any attempts at dispelling them. _If only those boys used their skills for something productive, _she thought, _the world would be better for it._

She smelled it well before she saw anything. It wasn't so much that the smell was _bad_, exactly—though it was that—it was just _overpowering_. The smell was huge, one could almost say...

...Giant.

There was a roar so loud that when it ended, Sprout couldn't even hear the pumpkins' song.

"_EXPECTO PATRONUM!_" she screamed.

o—o—o—o

"I'm beginning to worry about Milo," McGonagall told the Headmaster. "I can't help but wonder if you weren't wrong about his magic being an unusual form of a child's accidental magic."

"So, you think he's telling the truth about being a... different wizard?" Dumbledore asked.

"I... I really don't know. But his development in Transfiguration has been so remarkably stunted that I can't tell if he's improved in any way _whatsoever_ since his first day off the boats," the Deputy Headmistress said. "And I'm not even certain that what he's doing is really _Transfiguration _at all. He's changing the matchstick's colour, to be certain, but... something seems off about it."

"Not everyone can wrap their head around Transfiguration. Why, Filius says his Hover Charm is worthy of a Seventh Year student, and Quirinus has nothing but praise for him. And you heard Ollivander's report about the what happened when he touched his wand the first time."

"Nevertheless," McGonagall pressed, "I think he may, in fact be... he might be a Squib, Headmaster. Why, I was just speaking to Severus, and he says that the boy is so hopeless at Potions that he actually believes him to be a Muggle, here by accident somehow."

"You mean to say that you and Severus actually agree on something?" Dumbledore asked.

"Perhaps. We'll know this afternoon, I believe, as Severus said he had developed some sort of test, and I for one—"

"Headmaster! There's a Troll loose on the second floor!" a small, cheerful voice said from behind McGonagall's head. The Deputy Headmistress turned around, and saw Sprout's Patronus floating behind her. Dumbledore and McGonagall stared at each other for a moment, then sprang into action.

"I'll start clearing the area of students—" McGonagall said, reaching for her wand.

"—and I'll contact the other Heads of Houses," Dumbledore said, standing up so fast that he knocked his chair over.

o—o—o—o

By the time the smoke cleared, Milo's hearing had mostly returned. His robe was in tatters, and he was covered in soot and dust.

"Wh-wh-what was _that_?" he asked.

"A Muggle chemist, if a Muggle chemist had ever analyzed Flobberworm mucous, would tell you that it reacts with the glycerol to form nitroglycerin."

Milo blinked blankly.

"Nitroglycerin is a volatile explosive," Snape said.

"And you let _newborns_ do this?"

"No. A wizard's inborn magic prevents the chemical reaction from occurring, as it is superceded by a magical one."

"Then why did it... ah," said Milo. One could practically hear the copper piece drop.

Milo looked at Snape.

Snape looked at Milo.

Not a word was said, until...

"Severus! There's a Troll on the second floor—thought you ought to know," said a translucent silvery Phoenix that Milo could _swear_ hadn't been there a moment before.

"HolycrapghostPhoenix!" a _living_ Phoenix was CR 24, and being a ghost only made it _more _powerful. Fortunately, they were Good-aligned. A Phoenix's fire could deal up to _40d6 damage_, although Milo was pretty sure Phoenixes were generally somewhat larger than a horse—this one was rather a lot smaller. _A baby, perhaps?_

"Get up, boy, and come with me—_now!_" said Snape. Milo wasn't about to refuse a direct command from a man who a _Phoenix_ had apparently asked for help, and followed. After leaving his office, Snape broke into a dead run towards the stairs.

"Are we going after the Troll?" asked Milo as they ran up the spiraling staircase. Judging by the dull look in the monster's eyes, Milo was fairly confident its Will save was low enough that it would fail to _Glitterdust_ for certain.

Snape paused for a moment.

"Boy, look at me," he commanded. Milo shrugged and complied. "Now, what were you and Quirrell talking about before I arrived?"

"Troll feeding and grooming," Milo lied blandly. Snape stared at him in the eyes for a moment.

"Very well, we've delayed too long," he said, and started climbing again at a hustle. _Well, that was weird,_ Milo thought.

"Professor," Milo said as they continued climbing the stairs, "we missed the second floor. This is the third floor," but Snape said nothing as they rounded the corner to the forbidden third floor corridor.

Snape stopped at the door and waited, still without an explanation.

"Professor," Milo pressed, "I think I deserve an explanation now. What are we doing in front of the corridor of 'Die a horrible and painful death?'"

"Stop questioning me and be silent," Snape snapped.

"What, do you expect me to be able to simply _Detect Thoughts_ or something? I won't be able to understand what's happening and act appropriately unless you tell me," Milo said, swapping out _Invisibility_. _Detect Thoughts_ was a 2nd-level Wizard spell that allowed one to listen to the surface thoughts of another. Milo didn't really expect it to beat Snape's Will bonus, but everyone rolls a 1 once in a while. For once, it appeared, it was Milo's turn to be lucky. Snape turned around, catching Milo's eye.

"Five points from Gryffindor, and five more if you don't stop talking," the Professor said.

_Fortunately, it appears I got here before Quirrell_, Snape thought.

_Why is beating Quirrell so important?_ Milo wondered.

_The boy suspects we were racing Quirrell here. Well, it wasn't too hard to figure out, I suppose_, Snape thought to himself (or so he thought). _When he goes for the Stone, I'll be ready_.

_Is Quirrell going for the Stone?_ Milo wondered. _That makes no sense at all, unless... Something's going on here I don't know about. Maybe Quirrell is trying to prevent Snape from getting the Stone? Or they're both going for it? Or Snape knows I'm reading his mind and—_

_The boy is a Legilimens?_ Snape thought sharply. There was a sudden pain in Milo's temple, and he felt a sudden sense of vertigo that knocked him to his knees.

"H-how did you... what was... what just happened?" Milo asked, clutching his head. His nose had started running, and he brushed it with his sleeve. The _Detect Thoughts_ spell no longer even registered Snape as an intelligent being, it was like he wasn't even there.

"Answer me truthfully;I'll know if you're lying," Snape said imperiously. "Are you a Legilimens?"

"Ah," Milo said, "No?"

Snape frowned. _He's telling the truth_, Snape thought to himself (and, this time, only to himself), _and yet... he must be lying somehow_. _Could he be an Occlumens as well? At eleven?_ _No. He's not even a wizard. He must have some other powers, similar to Legilimancy in effect, but called something else._

"Can you read minds?"

"Ah. Um. No," Milo lied.

Snape grinned. It faded quickly.

"Tell me," he said oddly, "do you smell something?"

"As a general rule, no," Milo said. "But now that you mention it..."

The silence was only broken by a particularly large spider scurrying across the floor, and then a quick flash of emotion from Mordenkainen. _FEAR, DISTRESS, HORROR._

And then the wall exploded.


	11. Chapter 11: The Troll and the Dementor

Author's Notes: I've gone back and changed the scene breaks on earlier chapters to the o—o that I use now, which actually appears on Fanfiction. Also, I've edited some cases of the word Wizard to standardize capitalization: Capital W refers to the D&D Wizard class, lower-case wizard refers to Harry Potter wizards. However, I've probably missed a lot of them, but that's what I'll be using from here on out.

o—o—o—o

"All students, return _immediately_ to your Common Rooms," said a beleaguered Professor Trelawney—an attack by a Troll was enough to knock even the Divinations Professor out of her usual half-asleep daze—to a group of Gryffindors lounging in the Great Hall.

"Excuse me, Professor," said Percy, the Gryffindor Prefect. "what's going on?"

"There's a Troll loose on the second floor!" she said anxiously. "And to think of all the poor students who saw the Grim today..."

"Right! Just leave it to me, Professor," said Percy, standing to his full height (as if that would do much against the twelve-foot-tall monstrosity on the loose). "Gryffindors, come with me! Are we missing anyone?"

The Gryffindors, mostly first years, looked around at each other.

"Hannah's outside, by the Lake," said Lavender Brown.

"And Milo's with Snape," said Ron.

"_Professor_ Snape, Ronald," corrected Percy. "And he'll be fine if he's with a professor. I'll find Hannah after I've walked you all to the tower, come along—_quickly_, now!"

Harry, Ron, and Hermione shared a quick look as the other Gryffindors started filing out of the massive room.

"Snape must have released the Troll!" Harry exclaimed to the others. "We've got to go find Milo."

"_Professor_ Snape can't have released the Troll, the key was in the Headmaster's office," said Hermione.

"So, what, Dumbledore set the Troll loose? _Obviously_ someone must have pulled a fast one on him," said Ron. "And now Milo's alone with old batface, and it's a _perfect_ time to just throw him out a window and say the Troll did it. Let's _go_, Hermione," Ron pleaded.

"But—"

"I'm done talking," Harry said. "Our friend could be in danger _right now_. Hannah's outside, she's probably the safest of all of us. I'm going, with or without you two," and with that, Harry stood up from his table and walked away from the group.

"Harry Potter!" said Percy. "Where are you _going_? The Common Room is _that_ way!"

"Going with Trelawney," lied Harry. "To help find the Hufflepuffs—you know how they are."

"Good man!" said Percy. "Best take Ronald with you—he could use someone like you as a role model. Well—good luck," he said, and left leading the others.

"_Someone like you as a role model_," sneered Ron. "Wonder what he'd say about that if you knew you lied right to his face? Grumblegrumblegrumble..." Ron trailed off.

Hermione sighed.

"All right, I'm coming with you. _Someone_ has to keep you two from getting into trouble," she said airily. Secretly, her heart was racing with excitement and anticipation.

"Great job you've done so far," said Ron.

"Enough talking," snapped Harry. "Wands out, and let's _go_, already. Hermione—ask the paintings if they've seen Milo or Snape anywhere. They'll talk to you, you're top of all our classes."

"Not History of Magic," said Hermione, her face flushing slightly.

"Ron, keep an eye out for teachers and prefects," said Harry. "Oh, and rampaging Trolls."

o—o—o—o

_Why_, Milo wondered (briefly), _am I looking _up _at the floor?_

—_Thud_—

Milo hit the ground—_hard_.

"I have to stop _doing_ that," he groaned. He'd gotten lucky and made his Reflex Save for half damage when the Troll dropped a wall on his face, but was somewhat less fortunate on his follow-up Grapple check to avoid being thrown across the room. A normal human would have broken numerous bones or died, but adventurers are somewhat more resilient than that. In total, he'd taken 8 points of damage—and for those of you keeping track back home, that put him at precisely 0 hp. That left him Disabled, meaning he can _either_ shuffle about slowly _or _try to attack (or cast a spell), but doing the latter will knock him unconscious and dying.

Milo crawled slowly around a corner, and tried to stay as silent as possible. _Next time_, he thought, _make sure there's a Potion of Cure Light Wounds in your Belt of Hidden Pouches._

Snape was nowhere to be seen.

_I need a distraction_.

"Sorry, Mordy," he whispered to his familiar. He had a bad feeling that, in a few levels, when Mordy could speak back, he'd be getting an earful for this.

Mordenkainen, rodent extraordinaire, leapt out of his home in Milo's belt and scurried around the corner to the Troll. Milo couldn't see what happened, but heard a mighty roar worthy of an Elder Wyrm, and then a loud crash.

While the alleged Troll was occupied, Milo got to work. Reaching into his Belt, he grabbed his flasks of oil and unstoppered their lids. Oil from his universe goes a long way, and was enough to cover a five-foot square. The hallway was closer to ten feet wide, and so Milo used four flasks to cover the whole hallway ten feet deep. He then spread caltrops (nasty, spiky contraptions) across the hallway as well.

Lastly, he (very carefully) took out a small, extremely valuable feather. The feather, much stiffer and heavier than a mundane feather, was one of Milo's most treasured possessions. It only worked once, and, while he had three of them, he wasn't getting any more until he could return home. Gingerly, he placed it on the ground in the oil, surrounded by caltrops.

"Hey, _ugly_!" Milo shouted around the corner. "Leave my friend alone!" On cue, Mordy scurried away from the Troll, up Milo's leg, and into his magic belt.

The Troll gave a mighty roar and charged Milo's position.

Milo grinned an evil sort of grin.

As the Troll placed its first heavy footstep on the oil-slick polished stone floor, it lost its balance. It slid forwards a few feet, an almost comical expression of surprise on its ugly features. It then fell backwards onto the hard floor—and the scattered caltrops. They weren't even close to powerful enough to deal any real damage, but all Milo needed was to keep the troll in position for a round. The Troll let loose a bellow of pain that shook the castle as Milo muttered the command word to his _Feather Token_.

For those unfamiliar, the _Tree Feather Token_ is the most useful magic item ever devised. On command, it instantly creates an entirely real, nonmagical oak tree five feet wide and sixty feet tall.

There was a swift, sudden breeze and a loud _pop_ as a tree _appeared_ in front of Milo. It didn't _grow_, it didn't start small and swell up, it was just _there_.

The ceilings in Hogwarts were as varied as the halls, paintings, and geography on a day-to-day basis, but _here_ they were only eight feet tall (the Troll had to stoop). The tree, which appeared _directly underneath_ the Troll, blasted it through the ceiling. And the one after that. And the one after _that_.

In total, the Troll was pushed bodily through seven floors, including three hallways, two unused classrooms, Professor Binn's quarters, and the Hufflepuff common room, which was now home to the forty-foot-wide canopy of a great oak tree.

"Quaal," Milo said weakly to the mythical inventor of the _Feather Tokens_, "I'm leaving _everything_ to you in my will."

_Crash_.

"Uh," said Milo.

_Crash_.

"That _really _can't be good."

_Crash_.

"I'll just hobble away at half speed, shall I?" Milo limped down the hallway, which ended in a dead-end, and a large window.

_Crash._

"Milo!" Milo heard someone say. "We're here, to, ah, rescue you..."

_Crash._

"Blimey, was this great, dirty old tree always here?"

_Crash._

"Ron!" said a sharp, female voice, "Careful, watch where you step. Someone's booby trapped the ha—"

_CRASH._ The ceiling caved in, and the Troll (heavily battered and bruised, but still in the game, so to speak) landed, gracelessly, directly behind Milo. Fortunately, it was looking away from him. Milo stood there breathlessly, trying to make as little noise as possible. _Maybe it will just... go away? That could happen, ri_—

Milo's watch chimed, loudly, and then started to speak.

"_Milo's got a da-ate, Milo's got a da-ate!_" it sang cheerfully. "_Don't be late, don't be late, 'cause Milo's got a da-ate!"_

"Oh, uh, hi there. See, the thing with the tree, that was nothing personal, right?" Milo said weakly. "So, why don't we just put this behind us—"

The Troll grabbed Milo with one arm, and, with a casual underhanded swing, neatly defenestrated him.

Harry, who had boldly ran across the slick, spiky hallway, frantically tried to help; but the young Wizard was out of sight before Harry was halfway through "_Wingardium_."

Then the Troll turned to face the three under-trained, under-prepared, under-aged wizards (well, two wizards and a witch).

The glass shredded Milo's already scorched and torn robes, but fortunately his _Mage Armour_ protected his skin from the worst of it.

Milo made a high, graceful arc over the Hogwarts Lake before he managed to stop blubbering long enough to cast _Feather Fall_.

Our Hero, covered in dust and soot, his black robes in tatters, his hat missing, his shoelaces untied, slowly floated to the ground, landing, as it would happen, in the arms of a giant pink bunny.

"Amazing Dementor costume!" Hannah (in fancy dress) exclaimed. "Nice entrance, too!"

Milo grinned briefly, then collapsed as his hit points dropped into the negatives.

o—o—o—o

Concealed by his _Disillusionment_ charm, Snape waited.

The Cerberus slept, the low rumble of its triple snore shaking the floor slightly.

Still, Snape waited.

Outside, the Troll was very likely killing one of his students.

Still, Snape waited.

His quarry was as invisible as he, but Snape had an advantage: the bane of all invisible wizards, everywhere. One that would stop the Dark Lord himself, were he invisible.

The door was closed. Quirrell would make his move—soon. Releasing the Troll was an obvious distraction to allow him to get in here unnoticed.

Still, Snape waited.

The good-natured Muggle Studies Professor had come back from Romania... different. Something had happened to him there, and it hadn't been vampires. The good-natured Muggle Studies Professor was gone, now. The Headmaster knew something, but whatever it was, he kept it to himself.

Still, Snape waited.

The castle shook, and a deafeningly loud _CRASH_ shook the room. One of the Cerberus's heads, jostled out of its slumber, perked up curiously.

Still, Snape waited.

The doorknob turned slowly.

Still, Snape waited.

Roots, of all things, slipped through the cracks in the masonry, breaking apart the mortar. The walls buckled slightly.

Still, Snape waited.

The door opened, and closed.

Still, Snape waited.

o—o—o—o

"Uh, Hermione," said Ron anxiously. "If you were planning on doing anything _smart_, now would be the time?"

Hermione simply stood staring up at the Troll, her face pale.

"Ron!" Harry shouted, barely dodging a large stone block. "What spells do we know?" The block, thrown by the Troll, exploded on the wall behind him.

"Uh. There's the one that makes our wands glow," he said. "and we can Transfigure teakettles. Sh-should we Transfigure teakettles?"

"What about _Wingardium Leviosa_?" Harry suggested.

"I dunno," Ron said skeptically. "That Troll looks a _little_ heavier than a textbook to me."

"Not the Troll, the blocks!" Harry realized. Desperately, they began Levitating anything in sight—stone blocks, the weird spiky metal things, paintings—over the Troll's head and dropping them. It was, it appeared, only marginally effective. The Troll's thick skull was made of sterner stuff than even the thousand-year-old masonry. _If I get out of this_, Harry resolved, _I'm going to learn how wizards fight_. _And I'm going to be the best there is. _Nothing _is going to threaten my home _ever _again._

"...to all those who ask," Harry heard Hermione whisper.

"What was that?" Harry asked, his brow drenched in sweat from the effort of Levitating the stone blocks that once made up the walls of his beloved castle. _His _castle. This Troll would regret the _second_ it scuffed the first _candlestick_ in his castle.

"_Portraits of Hogwarts!_" Hermione roared. "Run! Run to your neighbours, shout, scream, _anything_. Find the Headmaster, or McGonagall, or Flitwick, Filch, _anyone_." A nearby painting of a knight drew its sword and saluted, and with a cry of "Yes, My Lady!" rode away on its stallion. The others just stared at her, stunned.

"Well, _I never_," said a portrait of a fat lady (but not _the_ Fat Lady) in an evening gown. "The _nerve_ of students these days, why, in _my_ day, they employed the _whip_."

"Couldn't have said it better myself, Agnes," said a bespectacled man.

"_RUN!_" she screamed at the paintings again. She didn't need to tell them a third time.

"Right!" said Harry. "Now we just need to slow it down."

"Yeah," said Ron dismally, "assuming we can rely on _Agnes_ to talk to Dumbledore about anything other than the state of today's youth."

"Hermione, do you know any spell to create fire? Or sparks?" Harry asked. Hermione shot a questioning look at him, before realizing what his plan was.

"_Incendio_," she cast, pointing her wand at Milo's oilslick. The lantern oil erupted in flame, which quickly spread to the great oak tree. There wasn't enough flammable material to create anything so impressive as a wall of fire, but it _did_ create a lot of smoke. Fortunately for the paint-based residents of Hogwarts, all of the living portraits had fled the area at Hermione's instructions earlier; unfortunately, their homes were caught in the inferno. The Troll was blinded by smoke, and started coughing hoarsely as it flailed its fists around.

"What about wind? Harry asked. "We need as much dust in there as possible."

"Well, there's the Gust Jinx," admitted Hermione skeptically, "but it's advanced. third-year."

"Hermione, can you cast it or not?" Harry pushed.

"Well... I've read about it," she said hesitantly. "I've never, you know, actually _tried_ it."

"No pressure or anything," urged Ron, "but if you mess up, we'll probably all die."

Hermione's forehead wrinkled in concentration. She very carefully (and slowly) placed her feet in the fencing-like casting position used when performing complicated magic, and pictured the page in _The Standard Book of Spells, Volume 3_ that described the wand motions.

"Swish, flick, counter-swirl, three-quarters-twirl-clockwise, diamond-inside-a-circle, _VENTUS!_"

It started gradually, building up strength somewhere behind Hermione. She felt her robes stir gently, and her hair started to rustle. At first, she thought she must have botched the spell (a thought which mortified her to her core), and then it happened.

There was a rush of air that nearly knocked her from her feet, whipping her curly hair around her head. Dust from the ruined hallway was picked up from the walls, floors, the children's clothes, and from under the heavy masonry. Hermione _thought_ Harry's plan was to fan the flames with more air, until...

o—o—o—o

The third-floor window that Milo had flown out of exploded. A blossom of red fire erupted from the remains of the frame, leaving spots in Hannah's eyes.

"That," she said, "_can't_ be good." She drew her wand anxiously, but wasn't sure, exactly, what she should be doing with it. She was, technically, a witch... but needing magic for a potentially life-or-death situation wasn't something she thought would ever happen. In fact, needing magic for _anything_ outside of class had simply never occurred to her. Imagine suddenly finding yourself having to calculate how long it would take a sedan accelerating at 6 m/s2 to a maximum of 80 km/h to catch up to a truck moving at 60 km/h with a forty-five-minute head start... _to save the Prime Minister_.

That, in a nutshell, is what Hannah felt like.

_First things first_, she thought,_ deal with the unconscious boy_. What Hannah _didn't_ know was that Milo, not simply unconscious, was, in fact, _dying_. Every six seconds he'd drop one hit point until hitting negative ten, when he'd buy the proverbial Outer Plane farm.

That leaves her, for those of you keeping score, fifty-four seconds to stabilize him.

Fifty-three...

Fifty-two...

"Uh, I should, uh, probably get you to the hostpital—uh, hopsital, uh. Ah. Hospital wing," she said. In another life, Hannah was a Hufflepuff. And Hufflepuffs, not that there's anything wrong with them, wonderful, wonderful people, are not typically noted (with the notable exception of the dreamy third-year Cedric Diggory) for keeping their heads in a crisis.

"_Locomotor Mortis!"_ she cast, and Milo's legs locked together.

Forty-two...

"No, wait! Wrong spell, I'm sorry!" she stressed. It was that last bit, the _Mortis _part. "_Locomotor Milo!_" she cast, and Milo floated into the air.

Thirty-six...

"Uh, maybe I should counter that Leg-Locker Curse, now that I think about it," she said. "_Finite Incantatem_," she cast. Milo fell back to the ground.

Thirty...

"Oh, of course, that cancelled _Locomotor_ as well. _Locomotor Milo!_" she cast again.

Twenty-four...

"Well, to the Hospital Wing it is, then!" she said, and set off. Milo drifted along behind her.

Twenty-three...

Twenty-two...

o—o—o—o

"Which one of you used the Blasting Charm?" Hermione asked, stunned, as she picked herself up from the rubble.

"_What?_" asked Ron.

"I said, _which one of you used the Blasting Charm_," she repeated loudly.

"_What?_" asked Ron, who had been deafened by the blast.

"Nobody here knows the Blasting Charm, Hermione," said Harry weakly. He'd been thrown halfway across the room in the explosion.

"_What?_"

"Then, what spell _was _that?"

"_What?_"

"No spell," said Harry.

"_What?_" said Hermione and Ron simultaneously.

"Well, this one time Dudley fell asleep watching cartoons and I got to watch Discovery," Harry said, "hiding in my cupboard, of course, in case my Aunt or Uncle saw, and it turns out if you throw enough dust at a fire, it, well, it—"

"—explodes?" finished Hermione.

"_What?_"

"Yeah, basically. That's why I asked you to conjure up a windstorm."

"_What?_"

"That's clever. I _strongly _disapprove, you broke about a _thousand_ school rules, and maybe my ribs; also, I know for a _fact _ '_no explosions in the hallways—_NO EXCEPTIONS_'_ is a rule, I saw it posted outside Filch's office, but it _was_ clever, but sometimes even when a plan is clever, _even_ when it's really clever, _you should really warn me when you're going to blow something up_."

"I'll do that next time," said Harry.

"_What?_"

"Oh, _shut up_, Ron!" snapped Hermione.

"_What?_"

"I _know_ you can't hear me, but _what_ you really expect to gain by saying '_what?_' over and over I don't even—"

Hermione was cut off when a huge, ugly, scorched hand reached out from the smoke and picked her up by the shoulder. She reflexively reached for her wand, but realized she'd dropped it in the explosion.

The Troll held her up close to its face, gazing at her with a curious expression. Then it opened its gaping maw. A fell odour of rotting meat and _extreme_ halitosis blasted her senses.

"Uh, please don't eat me, Mr. Troll..." she begged.

Instead of eating her or charging down the injured Ron and Harry, the Troll decided to take a third option.

o—o—o—o

Snape waited. Quirrell, Snape knew (though he could not see him), was likely deciding what to do about Hagrid's dog. Whatever action he took would be proof enough for Snape to bring Dumbledore, or even the Ministry, down on him.

Any moment now, the Defence Professor would kill the dog.

Unexpectedly, nothing happened.

_What is he _doing_?_ Snape wondered. Then the Troll made an entrance.

Literally.

Stone bricks flew across the room when Quirrell's beast tore its way through the wall as if it were made of paper, carrying the Granger girl in one hand as if she were a rag doll.

The Cerberus awoke and leapt. Snape, though he would never admit it, was reminded of the time he'd seen _Godzilla Versus Mothra_ as a boy.

Stunned, Snape fumbled for his wand while the Cerberus collided with the Troll, knocking it to the ground. Granger was tossed across the room, and slid limply along the ground. She didn't move.

The Troll wrestled the larger beast off of it and grabbed an enormous flagstone that used to make up part of the third floor's ceiling. With a mighty heave, it brought the heavy chunk of stone down on one of the hound's heads. There was a sickening crunch, and the other two heads led out bellows of rage; blood and spit speckling the Troll. The Cerberus raked the Troll with sharp claws, gouging thick slashes in its tough hide. One of is heads went for the Troll's neck, but the Troll managed to wrestle its jaws open with its hands; the other head went for Granger.

Snape began to cast a spell, but someone beat him to it.

"_Avada Kedavra_," Snape heard someone say, and there was a blinding green flash. The Cerberus lay dead, and Quirrell stood in the centre of the room.

"A-a-are you a-alright, Miss G-G-Granger?" Quirrell asked, his voice full of concern. When Hermione didn't respond, Quirrell frantically tore a strip of cloth from his robe and tied it around her bleeding head.

"_Episkey,_" he cast, and several of her smaller cuts and injuries healed rapidly. "I'm s-s-sorry," he said, "that's the b-b-best I c-can do until h-help arrives."

Quirrell, Snape noticed, never seemed to stammer when casting a spell. _Well, at least now his plan is clear. Really, it was obvious in hindsight_, Snape sighed. He should have seen it coming. Quirrell released the Troll not only as a distraction, but as an excuse to enter the forbidden corridor and kill Fluffy. He used a Forbidden Curse, but even those were technically legal against non-humans. It did further cement Snape's view that Quirrell had gone Dark, however. On top of everything, Quirrell would now be a hero in everyone's eyes. What this had to do with Milo, however, Snape still couldn't figure out.

_Wait_, he thought, _why was the Troll holding Miss Granger?_

He paused. _Granger must have been in the hallways, and where there's Granger..._

_...there's Harry Potter._

Climbing over debris and deceased dog, Snape rushed through the Troll's wall entrance. The Troll itself lay gasping for breath under the hound's body.

Outside, in the hallway, was an... interesting sight. The window had been blown open, taking much of the surrounding frame with it. The ceiling had not one, but _two_ troll-sized holes in it; one of them was at least _mostly_ filled... by a great oak tree, which was, incidentally, on fire. Just down the hallway was _another_ flattened wall, where the Troll had first entered. The sheer level of damage was unlike anything Snape had ever seen before—not even Fred and George... not even _James_ and _Sirius_ had ever... _no-one_, so far as Snape knew, had ever done so much raw, physical damage to the Hogwarts school in a thousand years, much less under a minute.

_Surely, the Dark Lord's hand must be at work, here..._

Snape shook himself out of his reverie, and began searching for Potter. The boy _must_ live, everything—and everyone—else was expendable. Dimly, he was aware of movement behind him.

There was a brief, blinding flash as Dumbledore arrived, carried by his fiery bird.

"You can come out, now," said the Headmaster. The eccentric Headmaster, it seemed, had not taken Hallowe'en lightly, and was wearing an uncharacteristically sombre gray robe and hat. Of all things, a sword was buckled to his side. At first, Snape thought Dumbledore had directed the remark at him, but the Headmaster looked right at him and winked.

The Troll, burnt and bloody, staggered out of the forbidden third-floor corridor.

"You have damaged my school," the Headmaster said gravely. "You have injured my students." The Troll cocked its head to the side, as if it actually understood what he was saying. "And for these things that you have done," the Headmaster continued, "you will _leave_. Now."

There was no threat, just a simple statement of fact. The Troll stared at the Headmaster blankly.

"Fly, you fool," Dumbledore said quietly. The Troll turned and leapt out the window. Snape, dismissing his Disillusionment Charm, walked over to the edge. The Troll was running towards the Forbidden Forest as fast as it could go.

"Professor," Snape heard a weak voice from behind them. Dumbledore turned to see Harry and Ron lying, partially buried by (surprisingly dust-free) stone bricks.

"Mr. Potter! Mr. Weasley! We have to get you to the hospital wing at once!" the Headmaster said in alarm.

"No, worry about us later," Harry said stoically. "Milo... was thrown out the window. He—I'm sure he—"

"Say no more, I'll take care of it," Dumbledore said reassuringly. "Snape, make sure these two—and Miss Granger, she should be around here somewhere—get to the hospital wing." With that, and a flash, he and his Phoenix vanished as quickly as they'd appeared.

o—o—o—o

"W-w-w-wingard... Wing... _Wingardium Leviosa_!" Hannah shouted, lifting Milo into the sky. She was sure—okay, _pretty_ sure—okay, she _hoped_ she'd found the window to the hospital wing.

Ten...

Milo slowly floated up to the fourth-storey window. Hannah hoped that _someone_ inside would see him and help.

Nine...

She considered sending up sparks with her wand, or even using magic to break the window, but she wasn't sure she could do that _and_ hold Milo at the same time.

Eight...

On the other hand, if necessary, she could always just shove him _through_ the window.

Seven...

_What would that accomplish? If there's nobody in there, there won't be anyone to help him._

Six...

Milo dropped to -9 hit points, not that Hannah knew that.

Five...

_I'm sure someone will notice him eventually_.

Four...

_Though I'm not sure for how long I can keep this levitate running._

Three...

There was a loud _Crack_ and a blinding flash. Dumbledore appeared in front of her, with a fiery bird perched on his shoulder.

Two...

Hannah's concentration broke, and abruptly she felt the strain of her Levitation Charm vanish. Milo, no longer protected by his Feather Fall, started to fall to the ground. Fawkes, with a mighty cry, leapt from Dumbledore's shoulder and flew towards the falling boy.

One...

o—o—o—o

Milo awoke to an all-too-familiar ceiling. He heard raised voices from the other side of the curtain surrounding his hospital bunk. He felt... well, pretty great, actually. It was sort of hard to put his finger on.

"_No,_ I _don't _know when he'll wake up!" said the frustrated voice of Madam Pomfrey.

"You _are _a mediwitch, aren't you?" said the stern voice of McGonagall.

"Yes, and I'm fully trained and qualified to heal _humans_. _What_ he is, I don't even—"

"So you're telling me you don't have a clue whether he's going to live or die."

"I'm _telling you_ that he's survived life threatening injuries in the past; I don't even know if he _can_ die."

"Uh," Milo said cheerfully. "I'm awake! Hello?"

Abruptly, the curtain was drawn back from around his bed. McGonagall looked concerned, and Pomfrey looked terrified.

"Wh-what, already?" she asked, trembling. "You should have been... I mean, you shouldn't have..."

"What Madam Pomfrey is trying to say," said McGonagall, "is that we're very relieved to hear that you're all right."

"Yup, just dandy. Can anyone tell me what happened? The last thing I remember is nearly killing myself casting _Feather Fall..._ of all the ways to die, I think that would have been the most humiliating. I can't believe it actually _was _the fall that killed me."

"Do you mean to tell me that you were performing dangerous magic—" McGonagall started, but Pomfrey cut her off.

"Well, I can only assume we have Fawkes to thank," said the mediwitch. "although as to _why_ the Headmaster's been keeping a miracle cure like Phoenix Tears locked away in his office, I suppose I'll have to bring that up with _him_..." she said, trailing off into a series of angry grumbles. Milo thought he caught the words "_puts me completely out of the job_" and "_could have saved that Longbottom boy a world of hurt_"

"Uh," said Milo, "could anyone tell me what happened to the Troll?"

"Professor Dumbledore drove it away," said McGonagall. "I believe it's likely still running, actually. Although your friends performed more than their share of Gryffindor heroism, and, not that I'd like to encourage this sort of thing, together you've all earned _more_ than enough points to offset your... _unruly_... behaviour."

"How come I'm not dead?" Milo asked, bluntly.

"Miss Abbot carried you back to the castle, and I rather think she was about to break the door down when the Headmaster found you—his Phoenix, Fawkes, has certain powerful healing abilities. She's quite distraught, in fact, and has hardly left your side."

"I don't suppose _you_ could tell _us_ why you're awake?" asked Pomfrey. "Everything I know tells me you should have either been completely restored when the Phoenix healed you, or, failing that, unconscious for days. It's only been three hours."

"Well, I've got a hit point. If I had to guess, that Phoenix cured me into the positives, and I was just sleeping since then. It was your shouting that woke me up. Still, I feel sort of... weird."

Madam Pomfrey frowned.

"_Lumos_," she whispered. "Right, follow my wand with your eyes..." she waved the wand slowly back in front of his face. When he, presumably, responded normally; she followed up with a number of diagnostic spells.

"Look, I feel _fine_," he said. "Better than fine, actually; sort of like... I could go toe-to-toe with a Ghoul or armwrestle a Bugbear. Like I could _be_ or _do_... well, _anything_. Like I'm _full_ of untapped potential..."

"Well, Phoenixes have been known to have a sort of euphoric effect—"

"No, it's not that. I think... I think I... my gods!" he said as he realized what had happened.

"What?" asked McGonagall, alarmed.

"I've levelled up!" It had never happened while he was unconscious before. "Leave me alone for a minute, I need to pick skills."

McGonagall gave him a peculiar look and turned to leave with Madam Pomfrey, but Milo ignored them both.

"Oh, by the way," said Madam Pomfrey as she left. "You're not to leave your bed for at least 24 hours."

"Sure, whatever," Milo said absently.

_Skills is easy_, Milo thought. _I'll just add another rank in what I've already got. As for feats..._

This part was really difficult for Milo. As a level five Wizard, he got a bonus metamagic or item creation feat. _Under normal circumstances I'd go for Extend Spell, but..._

_I might have to face the fact that I'm going to be stuck here for a while,_ Milo thought bitterly. _I have to be self-sufficient. I have to be a whole party, a whole _economy, _by myself. If I keep being tossed into encounters above my ECL like this, I'm going to wind up dead._

_What are my assets?_

_I have time._

_With Harry Potter, I have money._

Feeling somewhat sick, Milo did something he swore he would never, ever do. Mentally, he wrote down "Craft Wondrous Item" on the character sheet in his mind.

_If I ever get to go home_, he reassured himself, _I'll just retrain it._

When it came to spells, Milo felt like he might cry. _I only get two. How can I live with only two?! There are _dozens _of third level spells I absolutely _have _to have. _Haste. Fireball. Shrink Item. Fly. Summon Monster III. Heroics. With tears in his eyes, Milo chose _Fly_ and _Summon Monster III_. _Next level,_ he promised himself. _Next level, I learn something that goes boom._

"What was that?" Milo heard a familiar voice.

"Sorry, Nev. This place has me talking to myself," Milo said.

"It's not so bad," he heard Neville say from next cot over. "Though I'd like to try sleeping in our dorm once, if only for the novelty of it."

"You've _never_ slept in Gryffindor Tower?" Milo heard Hermione say.

"Blimey," said Ron. "Now that I think about it, I don't think I've ever seen him in there."

"My suitcase isn't even unpacked," Neville said sadly.

Milo looked around. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were all lying in hospital beds as well. Hermione's bushy brown hair was hidden by thick bandages around her head, with more wrapped around her chest. Harry and Ron were similarly bandaged, albeit to a lesser extent.

"Holy crap," Milo said, stunned. "What happened to _you _guys?"

As they filled him in on the events of their day (Milo was _stunned_ at the revelation that dust could explode; the possible applications for that were _endless_. Okay, well, really there was only _one _application for it, and that was for making things go boom on the cheap.) That these three "wizards" very nearly took out that "Troll" made Milo's respect for them go up several notches.

"So all they were keeping in the chamber of die-a-horrible-death was a gigantic three-headed dog?" Milo asked. "Huh. I always had it figured for the Philosopher's Stone. Guess that explains why Hogwarts had a gigantic ultra-secure cage, though."

As Milo was talking, the door to the hospital wing opened.

Hannah Abbot, in full rabbit regalia, entered, followed by a hovering trolley _covered_ in food.

"Seeing as how you're missing the Hallowe'en feast," she said, "McGonagall made a special exemption and let me bring the feast to _you_. Also," she added, "you lot—Milo excluded, of course; very spooky as a Dementor—wouldn't be allowed in there without a costume, anyway."

The eyes on Harry's, Ron's, Hermione's, and Neville's eyes lit up simultaneously. Milo shrugged and reached for his Everlasting Rations.

"She also said to tell you that it came with a twenty Gryffindor House Points for each of you (except you, Neville, sorry), and five for me," she said happily. "Oh, also," she said, looking archly at Milo. "If you even _think _about eating those bland, tasteless Rations, I will personally throw you through another window."

Ron choked slightly.

"_McGonagall_ said _that?_"

"No," said Hannah. "That was me."

Hannah walked past her grievously injured friends, passing out plates piled high with food. Milo felt that elaborate descriptions were in order, but, frankly, he didn't know what three-quarters of the stuff was even _called_. Hannah sat down on the bed next to Milo and passed him a plate.

Milo sniffed it suspiciously.

"_Detect Poison_," he muttered. Everything _looked_ clean (except Neville, who still had enough poison in him to be flagged as 'poisonous'), but that paradoxically only made him _more _nervous. The poison might be _really_ well hidden...

"Oh, just eat it," Hannah said. "What could happen? You're _already_ in the hospital wing."

"Fine," Milo said reluctantly. He took a tiny bite of something sort of orange-ish. His hand was already reaching for Antitoxin before he finished chewing, but, surprisingly, he felt fine.

"Hey," he said, stunned. "This... this is pretty _good_."

"See? I told you so," Hannah said with a grin. Where Milo came from, taste was only ever described when it was dramatically required, but _here_... everything was so full of _flavour_, even—or, perhaps, _especially_—when it was completely inconsequential.

"Beans," he said suddenly.

"Sorry, what was that, mate?" Ron asked.

"The Gringotts Every-Flavoured Beans," Milo said. "I want some. _Now_."

"They're _Bertie Botts_ Every-Flavoured Beans," Ron muttered. "And there's a box on the trolley, but, blimey, Harry made me swear to warn anyone before their first time—"

"I can handle it," Milo said, grabbing the box. He licked his lips hungrily and downed a handful at a time.

Milo passed out from sensory overload.

"This," said Harry as Milo came to, "was the best Hallowe'en _ever_. Normally, the Muggles only let me have the candies they took from Dudley because they think they have razor blades in them."

Milo was forced to agree, and not only because it was the only Hallowe'en he'd ever had. He'd fought monsters, survived by the skin of his teeth, levelled up, discovered the wonders of a whole new sense, and felt, for the first time in a long time, like he was part of a party again.

It was, rather, like coming home.


	12. Chapter 12: Of Rats and Bowler Caps

Author's Notes: Milo's new level five character sheet can be found here: ?sheetid=421496. because Fanfiction seems to dislike entire URLS.

Thanks to everyone for your nice reviews! If this story were a Wizard, those reviews would be his spells per day.

o—o—o—o

Harry and Ron were released on Friday evening, but Milo and Hermione were obliged to stay in the hospital wing for the weekend. Gryffindor (and even a few Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw) well-wishers had brought in flowers, candy, and cards to speed their recovery. Milo wondered idly where the students had got them from, because it wasn't like there were any shops in the castle, and students couldn't just leave the grounds.

"Owl-order," answered Hermione when he asked on Sunday evening. "Also, third-years and above can go to Hogsmeade a few times a year."

Milo was disappointed at how... _mundane_ the answer was, but liked the sound of the Hogsmeade trips once he hit third year...

Milo cut off that line of thought quickly. _There's no way I'm still going to be here in two years, _he thought firmly_. Why, Zook and the others are probably already paying to have a whole battery of Divinations cast to find out where I am._

_Totally._

_...and the reason that's been two months, why, they're probably just trying to find a really good Diviner to do it. Yeah. Totally. Or a Conjurer to Plane Shift me home._

Milo sighed.

_They could have at least sent a Sending once in a while, is that too much to ask?_

_Of course, this all assumes they weren't TPK'd by Thamior because they didn't have me to do, well, everything._

"Why the long face?" Hermione asked, full of concern.

"I think," said Milo, "that all of my friends back home might be dead."

"_What?_" she asked, her face gone white. "That's terrible! What... why... who... Oh, Milo, I'm sorry. I'm _so _sorry; that's about the worst thing I've ever heard."

Milo blinked. He'd forgotten that the people here seemed to view death as more than a mild inconvenience.

"It's not so bad," he said. "I mean, this isn't the first time it's happened."

"You don't have to put on such a brave face," she said. "It's only me."

"Where I come from, you can pay to have people brought back from the dead," Milo said simply. "It's really not such a big deal."

Hermione just stared, thunderstruck.

"That's... so..." Hermione paused to collect her thoughts. "You really _are _from another world, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Milo said quietly. "Everything was really—"

"Hey!" Milo heard a small, sharp voice say.

"Uh, Hermione, did you say something?" Milo asked

"Listen!" the voice said.

"_What?_" Milo asked, irritated. Milo got a flash of _Irritation, Frustration, Annoyance_ from his empathic bond. "Mordy? Was that you? Since when can you _talk?_"

"It's _amazing_, really, it is," the voice (presumably Mordy) said. "You remembered to put a skill rank in Decipher Script, as if you'll ever find any use for that, but you _forgot_ that I got the Speak With Master ability?" Mordy crawled out of his home in Milo's bag, and up his robes to talk to him face-to-face. Hermione had an odd look on her face, watching the exchange.

"Well, I feel like that's more _your _business to keep track of—" Milo protested weakly.

"I'm _your_ class feature," said Mordy firmly. "Bet you forgot my Natural Armour increased, too, didn't you? No, don't tell me; I don't think my poor, adorable little rodent heart could take it."

"Yes, well, but—"

"And it's been _ages_ since I got any share of the loot," Mordenkainen continued as if Milo hadn't spoken.

"_Share of the_—"

"That's right, my fair share of the loot. I do all the most dangerous jobs—distracting the Troll, spying on Snape's secret meeting with Lucius—"

"Wait, _what_—"

"—and what do I get in return?"

"Supernatural power above and beyond that of an ordinary rat, humanlike Intelligence, magical knowledge rivalling my own, the Skill Ranks of a level five Wizard—but that's beside the point. What's this about Snape's secret meeting?"

"Right after you were doing your '_Crime Scene Investigating_' in the Forbidden Forest—I'm sorry, are you not taking me seriously? You're laughing."

"It's hard to maintain a straight face," Milo said between laughs, "when you see a rat make little air-quotes like that."

"Stay on topic, would you? Snape snuck out to meet the Smarmy Git's father, before you ask, yes, I could tell by his scent who he was but also because the Oily One called him 'Lucius Malfoy.'"

"And? What did they talk about?" Milo asked, intrigued.

"You know, I got mauled by a cat once, helping you," Mordy said.

"What happened to 'Stay on topic?'" Milo asked.

"I just wanted you to appreciate how difficult my job is, sometimes."

"Yes, yes, you're very appreciated, now _get on with it_."

"Well, the Sire of Smarm told the Oily One that you weren't a wizard—"

"_Not a Wizard?_" Milo asked, enraged. "I will _end_ him! I'll show him which one of us _isn't a Wizard_ when I shove some high-powered arcana down his—"

"—and that he wants the Oily One to have you expelled."

"...Huh," said Milo flatly. "Expelled? That's it?" From where he was from, enemies generally wanted you, dead, undead, re-dead, disgraced, disintegrated, detained, and/or devoured. Being expelled seemed so... unimportant. "It must only be Phase One of his plan. First, get me expelled, then, eaten by Bugbears."

"That's what I assumed as well. So, boss, what's the plan? Oh, before I forget, there's this one other th—"

"Okay," said Hermione, as if it had taken her this long to work up the courage to mention it. "_What_ are you doing?"

"Talking to Mordenkainen," he said. "Can't you tell?"

"No," said Hermione. "It sounded like you were spouting gibberish. You can—wait, you can talk to rats? You're a... a... huh. I don't actually know if there's a word for that. A rodenttongue? Rattongue?"

"No, just to this one. I'm the one-and-only Mordytongue," Milo said. He'd forgotten that the Speak With Master ability magically prevented anyone from understanding what he said to Mordy, and vice-versa. _Handy_, he thought.

"So, what are you saying?" Hermione asked curiously. "Er, that was rude. I didn't meant to pry, or interrupt a conversation, or anything, it's just that it's not every day that—"

"Mordy was telling me that Snape and Lucius Malfoy met secretly in the forest," Milo explained, "and that Lucius asked Snape to get me expelled."

Hermione frowned.

"This was when you went to the forest to investigate the Acromantula?" Hermione asked. "I'd been meaning to ask—what did you end up finding?"

"The Acromantula had a missing fang," Milo said. "And that I couldn't have killed it with the log."

"But, that means..."

"Someone else must have done it, though I didn't see it happen. I would have thought it was Quirrell, but he was very clear about the fact that he was nowhere near the scene at the time. Also, the math on the Experience Points checks out if I split it fifty-fifty with a more experienced character than myself."

Hermione blinked.

"You know, when I was in school, people said _I _was weird."

"Must be nice," Milo said, "to have a backstory. Seems like a lot of work, mind."

"You... you don't remember your childhood _at all?_"Hermione was shocked.

"Before I became an adventurer? Not really. I know that at some point, I became a vagabond street thief, but I'm not really sure how that happened."

"But that's so _sad_," Hermione said, her eyes misting up.

"It let me become a Wizard younger," Milo said. "It's sort of complicated, and it doesn't stand up to close inspection. It's... weird. For me. This only became a problem when I came to this world, it's like... I'm cut off from something. I don't suppose we can change the subject?"

"What were we talking about?" Hermione asked. "Oh, right. Snape trying to get you expelled. Only Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore have the authority for that," she said, "short of the Minister for Magic stepping in personally. It's out of Snape's hands."

"I guess Snape could try to set it up so that they had no choice but to—aw, _crap_. The potion."

"_Milo_!" Hermione said. "Language!" she paused for a moment. "Also, what potion?"

"For Snape's detention on Hallowe'en," Milo said. "I thought he was trying to kill me, having me make an exploding potion, but it was a test. I failed."

"Failing Potions isn't enough to have you expelled," Hermione said. "I mean, take Neville."

"Hey!" said Neville from his bunk. He was back in the hospital wing after being mauled by (and they wouldn't have believed it if there hadn't been twelve witnesses) a Flobberworm. Flobberworms have no teeth, fangs, spikes, poison, spit, _anything_. Their one claim to fame is their (harmless) slimy mucous. They'd quite forgotten about him.

"Sorry, Nev," Hermione said, her face pink.

"No, it's not just about being even more hopelessly incompetent than Neville," Milo said as if Neville hadn't spoken. PCs could be like that around NPCs, sometimes. "Snape told me himself: a newborn with a _hint_ of magical blood could make that potion. All you have to do is _stir_ it, you don't need to think about it or concentrate or anything."

"So?" asked Hermione. "What's your point?"

"I couldn't make the potion," Milo said quietly.

There was a meaningful silence.

"Maybe you had the ingredients wrong?" asked Hermione.

"No, they were perfect. Snape even checked them beforehand. It's not like I kept it a secret, I'm _not_ a wizard like you are."

"Witch, _actually_," said Hermione pointedly.

"But the only thing keeping me here is that Dumbledore thinks I'm like _you_," said Milo, "only crazy and deluded—and even worse at magic than _Neville_."

"Hey!"

"No, that can't be," said Hermione. "If you weren't a wizard, the wards wouldn't let you enter Hogsmeade or Hogwarts. You'd suddenly remember an important meeting and run off, I believe."

"I suppose it depends on the _exact_ wording of the spell. Maybe the wards target everyone who isn't '_a wizard, witch, squib, or magical creature,_' or something. I don't suppose you have the spell description in the library?"

"Uh," said Hermione. "I... don't think so."

"More importantly, I've..." Milo's tongue tripped over itself. "I've..." he sighed. "I've already _lost_. Snape won. I'm going to be expelled."

"No, I think it would take more than Snape's word for something like this. It's completely unprecedented; the Ministry will want to be involved, Dumbledore too—and McGonagall, of course—the department that handles underage magic... the point is, I don't think we need to worry until ministry officials start showing up—"

"Hello!" said a cheerful voice, interrupting Hermione mid-sentence. Milo turned to see a portly (one) little (two) man in a pinstriped cloak and green bowler cap (three! Major NPC) standing at the entrance to the hospital wing.

Hermione gasped, her face completely white.

"Erm," said Milo. "Hello, ah, sir?" he was guessing wildly, but judging by Hermione's reaction, this was either a local king, evil vizier, or Lord Voldemort himself. Milo carefully re-arranged his blankets so they wouldn't impede him if he made a run for the window, and stuffed Mordenkainen back into his belt.

"Oh, that won't be necessary," said the man. "I'm Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic."

Milo blinked.

_Aw, _crap.

"M-M-Milo Amastacia—"

"—Liadon," Fudge interrupted as he moved to sit next to Milo. "Yes, yes, I know who you are."

Milo licked his lips, which had gone suddenly dry. He wouldn't be up to full hit points until midnight, when his second day of full bed rest finished. He slowly pulled both hands out from under his blankets so they wouldn't interfere with Somatic spell components. This man, as Milo understood it, was king of an _entire country of wizards_. He probably had access to enough Arcane power to rewrite reality according to his whims.

"I'm afraid there's been a spot of trouble," the Minister said. "I'm sure it's nothing, but it has a lot of us at the Ministry scratching our heads. I'm here with some colleagues—who are waiting in the hall; your mediwitch was quite... _severe_ with them, demanded no more than one of us be let in at a time—who are here to sort it out and solve the little mystery. Shouldn't take more than a moment, really."

Hermione shot Milo a look of absolute panic.

"H-how can I help, m-m-my lord?" Milo asked.

"_Really_ now," said Fudge, "I'm not a lord, you know."

"F-forgive me, your Divine Imperial Majesty!"

The fat little man sighed and removed his bowler cap.

"Just Mister Fudge will do, Milo. And to answer your question earlier, all you have to do is follow me, answer a few questions, and brew a potion. We can have you back to your bed and friends in a few minutes."

Milo panicked. It was the end of the day, and he was almost out of spells. He couldn't prepare new ones until Monday.

"I, ah, I'd love to but I'm afraid I'm... I'm grievously injured," Milo stammered. "I was thrown out a window just the other day, you know?"

"The lovely Ms. Pomfrey assures me that you're in good enough shape to move about, if only for a short time," said Fudge. "And I'm afraid I have to insist. It's quite out of my hands, you see..."

"But you're the—" Milo said, before remembering who he was talking to. Fudge could probably lay waste to armies with a wave of his hand. "...okay. I'll go with you," he said meekly.

"Good lad!" said the Minister as Milo climbed to his feet.

"I want to go with him," Hermione said firmly.

"Er," said the Minister. "Well, shouldn't you stay here and rest?"

"No," she insisted. "I'll be fine, Pomfrey is just being over-protective. I'm not letting him go _anywhere_ alone—you wouldn't believe what happens." Milo grinned; it looked like she was finally grasping Adventurer Rule One: _you _never _split the party_.

"Well, um, very well, but let it be known this wasn't my idea."

Hermione weakly struggled to her feet. Her head was still tightly bandaged, as was her chest. From what Milo could understand, witches and wizards—and Muggles, too, likely—had a completely different healing process from what he was familiar with.

Milo moved next to Hermione (just in case) and together they followed the Minister for Magic. Outside the hospital wing's large double doors were four of his flunkies.

"These are my colleagues," Fudge gestured at his underlings, "Mafilda Hopkirk from the Improper Use of Magic Office," he said, pointing at a stern, gray-haired witch, "Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic," Fudge pointed at what Milo could only assume to be a Half-Toad clad all in pink, "and Broderick Bode of the Department of Mysteries," Fudge pointed at a sallow-skinned wizard. "In the back there is Walden Macnair of the, er, the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. I'm sure he won't be necessary." Fudge pointed at a _huge_ wizard standing head-and-shoulders taller than the others.

"This the little beastie?" Macnair asked in a low rumble.

"Well," said Fudge awkwardly. "That, er, has, ah, yet to be determined. If you'll all follow me?" Fudge asked, with a small gesture. Milo frowned. _Is his timid incompetence an act, as obfuscation? Or is he _really _this anxious all the time? If so, _how_ did he become ruler of en empire of what are, essentially, demigods?_

_He can't have_, Milo realized. _Either he's a brilliant chessmaster behind this facade, or..._

Fudge led the group into the dungeons, but Milo barely noticed.

_...or someone else is the real power behind the throne. But is it Dumbledore, Lucius, Voldemort, or some third party?_

_Either way, I _really _need to figure out how to pass Snape's test._

It wasn't _that_ impossible, really. All he had to do was get a cauldron to bubble instead of exploding.

The only catch was that he hardly had any spells left; he'd been using _Scholar's Touch_ to catch up on his reading.

Milo ran his fingers through his hair. He hadn't quite realized how vulnerable that made him at night.

"How long is it to midnight?" he asked Hermione, who checked her watch.

"Less than two hours," she said with a yawn. "It's _way_ past my bedtime."

Milo chewed his lip. He had a plan, of sorts. He just had to delay until midnight, and _then_ delay for an hour while he prepared spells. And _then_ he had to figure out how to make a handful of spells designed for killing orcs in ten-by-ten stone rooms do something they were _never _intended to.

All the while with the most powerful men in the country breathing down his neck.

_Wonderful_.

"I'm sure if you just double-check your measuring," Hermione said in an attempt to be reassuring, "you'll do fine."

Milo grinned nervously, then steeled himself. He had the beginnings of a plan in mind, but for that he would need spells.

"So, erm, Milo my boy, where did you say you came from?" Fudge asked.

"Myra," Milo said proudly. "City of light! City of _Magic_!" The Myrari government, though completely inept at dealing with dragons, goblins, and bandits, nonetheless had a sophisticated system of Divinations set up to detect citizens who _didn't_ add the legally-mandated city motto after saying the city's name. Milo wasn't sure exactly how far-reaching the effects were, so even_ here_ he made sure to say it—and, for that matter, _think _it. Nobody knew exactly what the punishment was for breaking that particular law, because nobody knew _anyone_ who had ever done it.

Personally, Milo suspected that lawbreakers were retroactively erased from the timeline altogether.

"Where is that, exactly?" asked Fudge. "America? Europe?"

"Uh," said Milo. He wasn't sure, exactly, how secret he was supposed to keep his otherworldy nature. On the other hand, Fudge was probably watching him with a battery of Divinations (or whatever the local equivalent was called) to catch him lying. _So, I can't tell the truth, and I probably can't tell a lie. _"No," Milo said. "Not America or Europe." _And now I need a diversion..._ "Did you see that ludicrous display last week?"

"I daresay! I had more Galleons riding on a Wanderer's victory than were in the Spanish Armada," Fudge said. "Mind, the Cannons were all riding _Nimbus Two Thousands_," he said. "That must have been the reason. Donated at the last minute by an anonymous benefactor. The Wanderers, though; rumour has it they were on an experimental new broom. Must have been rubbish, though."

Milo's curiosity was perked. If there's one thing _every_ adventurer listens to, it's unfounded rumours told by fat little men. He knew his present situation was dire, but he just _had_ to dig for more information.

"An experimental broom?" Milo asked.

"So I'd heard. Made by a total unknown in Wales somewhere, doesn't even have a proper name yet. It's all very hush-hush, even to me—and I'm the Minister!"

"So, your, ah, Ministership, sir, do you have any guesses about who donated all the broomsticks?"

"Off the record? There's only one family with the wealth and influence to afford a team's set of Nimbuses with a vested interest in seeing the broomstick succeed," Fudge said conspiratorially, "and that's the Malfoys. Mr. Malfoy is on the Nimbus board of directors, you know."

Milo had no idea what a board of directors was, but he didn't care. Everything he heard seemed to be pointing to that family: the manor he first woke up in, Draco's very existence (and at the _exact_ same age as him, too), Lucius in the forest —and wasn't Draco taunting him about Quidditch just the other day?

Milo knew an adventure hook when he saw one.

_Later_, Milo thought. _First, I need to avoid being expelled_. Expulsion would be inconvenient and annoying, but it wasn't as if Milo had any vested interest in obtaining a magic education in the wrong sort of magic. Mostly, he just wanted to stay in Hogwarts because Lucius, for some reason, wanted him out.

"Ah, here we are," said Fudge as they approached Snape's classroom in the dungeons. "You know, when I attended this school, this was where they used to lock us when we misbehaved. Ah, the joys of youth."

Without even being prompted, Macnair and Bode each opened one of the double doors, allowing Fudge to enter. Milo was still unsure if the man's bumbling nature was an act or not.

Milo and Hermione followed, with Fudge's underlings behind them.

Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, and a small group of men Milo didn't recognize were waiting in the classroom for them. Something about the way the group of men stood, and the fact that they were all dressed the same, made Milo think they were some form of wizard police or military. _What was the word for that? They had a word for that_¸ Milo thought, trying to remember. It was in one of the books he'd read with _Scholar's Touch_.

Sitting in the middle of the classroom was a small, pewter cauldron. Next to it were the ingredients, such as they were, for Snape's test potion. Snape looked excited, McGonagall worried, and Dumbledore as enigmatic as always.

"In accordance with Section Thirty-Two-Point-One-Four-One-Alpha of the 1634 Statute on Inexplicable Phenomena of a Magical Nature," Umbridge declared in an authoritative voice, reading from a scroll she'd been carrying somewhere on her person, "which states, in the words of the Great Wizard Peabody, '_When something really, really, _really_ wyrd happens, and hear ye me I do mean _REALLY _wyrd, and lo, it hath never happened before, and neither sir nor gentle lady knoweth what to do, let the goddamned Department of Mysteries handle it, y'hear? And forsooth, maketh sure there are at _least_ a half-dozen Aurors around, if ye know what be good for ye,_' the first preliminary inquiry to determine the nature of one entity known as '_Milo Amastacia-Liadon,_' of a species yet to be determined, is to be convened, under the supervision of one Broderick Bode of the Department of Mysteries and in the presence of six fully-qualified Aurors of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Also in attendance are Hogwarts Professors Albus Dumbledore, Minerva McGonagall, and Severus Snape, Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, Walden McNair of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Mafilda Hopkirk from the Improper Use of Magic Office, and... _Ms._ Hermione Granger. The objective of the inquiry is 1) to determine the species of the individual in question, 2) if he turns out to be human, whether he is a wizard, squib, or... otherwise, 3) if _not_ a wizard, determine how he got past the magical wards protecting this castle and the village known as Hogsmeade, 4)if _not _human, to turn the inquiries over to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures for study and, if deemed appropriate, execution. Let the inquisition commence."

Umbridge put away her parchment and stepped back.

Milo blinked. _Well_, he thought, _this is unexpected_. Bode, the strange, somber man from the Department of Mysteries moved forwards slightly.

"Now, Milo, I want you to understand that these are just _preliminary _inquiries. There are a lot of unanswered questions, and we're just going to try and see if they're worth looking into is all. That business about the execution is just a formality," he said in a dry voice. Milo had just started sighing with relief when he continued. "Unless, of course, you _aren't_ human, and are some form of hitherto-undiscovered magical creature, in which case you'll be staked, beheaded, buried upside-down in sanctified concrete for a year and a day; then dug up, salted, shot with thirteen silver bullets, cremated, and Disapparated into the sun. In my experience, that'll kill anything short of a Dementor."

Milo laughed weakly.

"So," Milo said nervously. "How, exactly, are we going to go about this?"

"The first test is easy enough. Your Potions Master was good enough to brew us up some Veritaserum. You just have to drink a drop."

"And what will that do, exactly?" Milo asked.

"It'll make it impossible for you to tell a lie," Bode said.

"Okay, hit me," Milo said, and reached out. Snape, with a grin, produced a tiny vial of clear potion from his robes. For one brief, _extremely_ embarrassing moment, Milo wished he were a Bard in order to cast _Glibness_. Snape poured out a single, tiny drop of Veritaserum into a glass of water, stirred it slowly, and passed it to Milo.

"Er," Milo asked. "How long will this last for? It's not permanent, is it?"

"Unfortunately," Snape said, "It will wear off in a few hours."

"Okay then," Milo said, and gulped the potion down in one go. To his surprise, it didn't really taste like anything, and he didn't even _feel _different. _Dangerous_, he thought. _A colourless, tasteless potion that makes one tell the truth._

"Now," said Bode. "Are you a human?"

"Seriously?" Milo asked. "That's your test? Yes, I'm a human."

"What town or city are you from?"

"Myra (cityoflight!cityof_Magic_!)"

"And in which country is Myra situated?"

"The Azel Empire."

"And on which continent is this... Azel Empire located?"

"The Azel continent."

"Milo, are you, in fact, from another world?"

"Yes," Milo said simply. Feeling he had to elaborate, he continued rapidly, the words almost spilling over themselves in an effort to be said. "A few months ago, I was summoned, without warning, to a manor near the village I later learned was Hogsmeade by a group of Death Eaters—"

"Oh, _surely_ we're not believing this nonsense?" interrupted Fudge rudely.

"I must remind you," Dumbledore said calmly, "that he _is_ under the effects of Veritaserum."

"Then he must be deluded. His wild tales are proof of that—_surely_ you can see that, Albus."

"We should wait for Bode to finish," Dumbledore said. "And then make a judgement."

"Very well. Carry on, then."

"Milo, I'll be as direct as I can here," Bode said. "Are you a Muggle?"

"No."

"Are you a Squib?"

"No."

"Are your parents wizards?"

"I don't know."

"Are you an orphan?"

"I don't know."

"Are you a wizard?"

"_Hells _yes I am," Milo said fiercely. "And anyone who says otherwise has another thing coming."

There was a low murmur from the Aurors present.

"Well, there you have it," Dumbledore said. "From his own mouth and under Veritaserum. I don't think this breach of my student's privacy has to go any further, do you?"

"He could be Confunded," Fudge said stubbornly. "In fact, I'd bet my hat that he is."

"If you were going to come to that conclusion in any case," Dumbledore said with a slight edge to his voice, "then, pray tell me, _why_ bother questioning him at all?"

"The Board of Governors insisted, Dumbledore. It was out of my hands."

"I wonder how many of the Governors are under the impression—mistaken, I'm sure—that their families would be put in danger if they didn't insist?" Dumbledore asked.

"Albus!" Fudge gasped, sounding scandalized. "What are you suggesting?"

"Nothing," he said. "I was just thinking out loud. Don't mind me."

"As I am led to believe," Bode said. "Your Potions Master has developed a test which he believes can prove conclusively whether or not you do, in fact, possess any magic. Professor?"

Snape stood up from his desk. He looked... almost _happy_. Snape happy terrified Milo far more than Snape wrathful.

"Most conventional tests of magic," Snape said in a lecturing tone, "could be fooled if the subject is merely _extremely _incompetent or weak. Even the simplest of charms can be fumbled by the mentally deficient. That Milo is the _worst _student of magic to enter this school in a century at least is not in question. What remains to be seen is whether he possesses _any _magic _at all_."

_Magic isn't a thing you just _have, Milo thought angrily. _It's something you have to work at. Something you _earn. _You have to _take _magic for yourself; it isn't simply handed to you._

"To that end, I have developed a test," Snape continued. "A potion that requires no thought, concentration, knowledge, or effort in the slightest. I will measure out the _exact_ proportions of the ingredients, which will be checked by Albus Dumbledore and any others who wish to. All the _boy_ has to do is pour them into the cauldron and stir once, counterclockwise. If the potion is created, he is a wizard. If not... it will explode, and I will leave him in the _more_ than capable hands of the Ministry to deal with as you see fit." Snape's expression harboured no doubt about what _he _thought should be done with '_the boy_.'

"Er, excuse me," Milo said. He could feel everyone's eyes on him. "Does anyone have the time?"

There was a brief silence. Eventually, Fudge fished a gold pocketwatch out from under his cloak.

"Half past eleven," Fudge said. "So could we hurry this up? _Some _ of us have to be up early tomorrow."

_This _has _to have been deliberate_, Milo thought. _Someone knows I have limited spells per day—they might even know that I routinely burn my remaining spell slots on _Scholar's Touch_ before bed—and scheduled this accordingly_. _Why else would the _Minister for Magic himself _consent to an inquisition at this hour? Surely he has other things to be doing._

"I think it's been established that I'm rubbish at Potions," Milo said nervously. He had to kill time until he could prepare spells. "Would anyone mind if I did a quick read-through of my Potions textbook to make sure I did this right?"

"But you _just _have to stir it!" Fudge said exasperatedly.

"Better safe than sorry," Milo said. "If I mess up the stir, the whole experiment is void and I get buried in concrete. I might need the extra help. After all, '_help will always be given at Hogwarts_—'"

"—_To those who ask for it_," Dumbledore finished his motto softly. "Very well," he said to the assembled government types, "I think the request is reasonable enough." Dumbledore said it without any particular weight to it, but somehow it was _very _clear that, even if he wasn't technically in charge here, his word on the matter was final.

"So I'll just run off and grab my text—"

"I _don't_ think so," Bode said firmly. "If you _are _some sort of magical creature with powers unknown, I don't think we should let you out of our sight. Professor Snape, do you have a copy of whatever your first year textbook is on hand?"

"_Accio Magical Drafts and Potions_," Snape said, and, with a flick of his wand, a textbook flew out of a nearby bookshelf and into his hand. _Convenient_, Milo thought. _And a lot less expensive than _Drawmij's Instant Summons_, that's for sure._

Without a word, the Potions Master passed Milo the heavy, and more importantly, _large_ textbook. If there's one thing about wizards (and Wizards), it's that they _never_ use standardized sheets of A4.

Milo made a big show of opening up the book and reading it studiously. _Very _studiously.

Twenty-eight eyes bored into Milo's head as he, _eventually_, turned a page and continued reading at a snail's pace.

"Oh, _surely_ this isn't necessary," Fudge said impatiently. "Just go and stir the ruddy pot, boy!"

"How far from the rim?" Milo asked. "How fast? With what length of spoon? No, I'm sorry Minister, but my _life_ is on the line here. If I'm going to stir it, I'm going to stir it _right_. I'll just be a minute."

Milo turned another page.

Minutes rolled by. Fudge glanced at his watch every few seconds, and began tapping his foot in irritation. Eventually...

"It's after _midnight_!" Fudge muttered. "Must we play along with this charade?"

"Oh, it's not _so _bad," McGonagall said. "I can't _remember_ the last time I've seen someone his age—except for you, Miss Granger, of course—studying so diligently."

"What if he's delaying until the Veritaserum wears off?" Fudge asked.

"A simple enough question to answer," said Dumbledore. "Milo, if you would be so kind as to answer, are you studying with the intention of delaying until the Veritaserum wears off?"

"No, sir," Milo said truthfully, and had to stifle a laugh. _That is _not _why I'm delaying._

"Well, there you have it," said Dumbledore. Fudge grumbled quietly to himself.

Milo slowly reached into his Belt of Hidden Pouches and recovered his most precious possession: his spellbook. Slowly, _very _slowly, he lifted the thick (but small in terms of height and width) tome and placed it such that it was hidden by _Magical Drafts and Potions_.

Milo grinned as he began preparing spells. _Good thing I was bedridden all day_, he thought. _Gave me my required eight hours of 'rest.'_

Spell preparation is a bit of an odd quirk of the Wizard class. It involved carefully poring over every intricate detail of the magic and memorizing it, but also, at the same time, casting the vast majority of the spell. Ninety-five percent of the casting was done during preparation so that only the very final stage had to be done on the fly. The result was that every Wizard went about their day holding, depending on their level, potentially dozens of unimaginably complicated spells all at the point of being _almost _finished. Each spell was like a sentence that just didn't _quite_. Was it any wonder that so many powerful Wizards went mad?

"Not like I have anything better to do," Fudge muttered. "Just a country to run, that's all. Don't mind me."

It takes a Wizard exactly one hour to prepare all of their spells, regardless of how many there are. However, a very infrequently used rule allows them to prepare a _fraction _of their daily allotment of spells in the same fraction of time, to a minimum of fifteen minutes.

Milo could prepare at most seventeen spells per day, so in fifteen minutes he could prepare one-quarter of that (four spells). He chose _Prestidigitation_, _Tenser's Floating Disk_, _Mage Hand, _and _Invisibility_.

He quickly stashed his spellbook back into his belt and stood up.

"Okay," he said. "Let's do this thing. But if we're doing it, we're doing it _right_. I'm a Wizard. I shouldn't have to _prove _that to you—but seeing as how you're forcing me, I want to make sure there are _absolutely_ no doubts after the fact. And for that, I demand your largest cauldron."


	13. Chapter 13: Roleplaying

Author's Notes: The reviews I got this week really got to me. I'd hoped, but I'd never really _believed_ that something I wrote would be read around the world (I just found out from Fanfiction that some of you live in places as far away from me as Hong Kong, Jamaica, and South Africa) and actually _enjoyed_. Reading your thoughts on what Milo's plan for escape would be was some of the most fun I've had, _ever_. _Coming up _with his actual plan required me and a team of three highly trained, well-equipped, professional, fully qualified geeks to stay up until the birds outside started singing. The result is one that I'm particularly proud of, and tops most of my zany D&D schemes by a wide margin.

Anyways. I'd just like to give a _huge_ thank you to you folks around the world for making a dream of mine come true.

P.S. Could someone with a recent print (i.e., bought it up to a few years ago but not when it was new) of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire PM me? It's important.

P.P.S. From here on out, a double-length bar-o-thingy denotes the end of the author's notes and the start of the story.

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

"The _nerve_!"

"Who does he think he is?"

"He's in _no _position to make demands!"

The reaction to Milo's request for a larger cauldron was... varied.

"It's clearly a ploy," Snape sneered. "He hopes to dilute the potion so that it won't explode in his face when he fails. It won't work."

"_If_ he fails, Severus," Dumbledore said.

"No," Milo said. "Scale up the other ingredients proportionally."

There was a meaningful silence.

"Tell me, _boy_," Snape said finally. "Do you have a death wish? Do you have _any_ idea how large an explo—"

"Oh, come now," Fudge interrupted. "We're in the presence of _six_ of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's finest, not to _mention_ the Supreme Mugwump himself. I _think_ we have more than enough magical muscle between us to keep anyone from being harmed. Let's just get him a bigger cauldron and be _done_ with it."

"But—"

"Do remember to whom it is that you are speaking, Severus."

"As you command," Snape said between clenched teeth. "_Accio Cauldron Size Twelve._" A large, heavy cauldron ponderously hovered from a store room, knocking over a variety of expensive-looking magical doodads in the process. It (_slowly_) came to a stop near the centre of the room. Milo gave it a quick look. _Only two-and-a-half feet in diameter_, he thought. _Needs to be larger_.

"No," Milo said. "Bigger."

"That is the largest potions cauldron I keep in the dungeon," Snape protested angrily. "Unless you plan on cooking a Troll—"

"Of course!" Dumbledore said. "We can use one of the cooking pots from the kitchens. The House Elves make enough oatmeal for hundreds of students on Tuesday mornings in just one pot, except for this _one _occasion in 1941 when there was a shortage of rolled oats and—"

McGonagall coughed pointedly.

"—and where was I? Oh yes."

Before Snape could say something biting and sarcastic, Dumbledore clapped his hands twice. A small... _creature_... appeared in front of him with a loud crack. It was, if you rounded up, entirely composed of large, floppy ear.

_What the Hells?_ Milo wondered. _Is that... some sort of goblinoid?_

"Floppy, would you be so good as to fetch the kitchen's largest cooking pot?" Dumbledore asked kindly.

"Yes, master," Floppy responded in a high, squeaky voice. "Right away, master." With another crack, Floppy was gone.

There was only one explanation for the creature that Milo could think of, impossible as it seemed. He'd heard that the kitchens were staffed by Elves, which was insane, but this world seemed to turn everything he knew on its head. So... so that little goblin-like creature he saw...

Milo broke into a cold sweat.

..._must be a slave of the elves._ Of all of the hundreds of subspecies of elf, only _one _kept slaves.

_Hogwarts has dark elves in the kitchen_, he thought with growing horror. _And they have _teleporting goblins_ in their employ_._ No _wonder _there was poison in that tart, there's enough Chaotic and Evil in the kitchen for it to qualify as a suburb of the Abyss_.

After a few seconds, there were six simultaneous pops. A half-dozen of the goblinoid slaves appeared carrying a _mammoth_ pot over their heads.

_The goblins are apparently super-strong_, Milo noted with steadily rising panic. _And can ignore Hogwarts' anti-teleportation Abjurations_._ Oh, _gods.

"Yeah," Milo said, tearing his eyes away from the humanoids. "That'll do."

As Snape began gathering buckets of glycerol and Flobberworm mucous from his storeroom (Milo wondered briefly how he managed to fit everything in there, before realizing the closet was probably of Holding), Milo mentally ran over his plan. _I can prevent the liquids from mixing using _Tenser's Floating Disk, he thought. _Tenser's Floating Disk_ was a moderately useful spell that created an invisible shallow bowl that hovers three feet off the ground. He could dump the mucous into the water, cast the spell above the liquid, then pour in the glycerol. _The tricky thing is that it's three feet wide—but this cauldron is more than sufficient. Then it's a simple matter of using _Prestidigitation_ to create bubbles._ Milo had never actually tried it, but he was pretty sure that creating a few bubbles in a pot fell within _Prestidigitation's_ ability to exert about a pound of force.

"_There_," Snape said in growing frustration. "You have, here, _precisely_ the correct amount of mucous and glycerol." He gestured to a pair of buckets. "Can we get this over with, now?"

"You said the Headmaster was to check them," Milo reminded him.

Dumbledore thoroughly, and, to the Minister for Magic's irritation, _slowly_ examined the contents of both buckets.

"Everything seems to be in order," Dumbledore said. "Would anyone else like to take a look?"

Hermione coughed awkwardly.

"I would, Headmaster—if it's all right, of course," she said. Milo blinked. Was this _Hermione_ doubting her professors? What was the world coming to?

Hermione, still wrapped in bandages, painfully limped over to the cooking pot in the centre of the room. She examined it until she saw, engraved near the bottom in tiny letters, "CAST IRON 112 GALLONS." Then she hobbled over to the side of the room and picked up a set of heavy brass scales. Then, with the Minister for Magic, two of her teachers, her headmaster, four senior Ministry officials, and six Aurors watching her intently, she limped over to Snape's desk. Carefully avoiding eye contact with the Potions Master, she placed the heavy measuring scale on the desk with a thud.

Hermione's right arm was in a splint, and Milo could tell that she quickly realized there was no way she'd be able to lift either of the two buckets. She drew her wand.

Six Aurors drew wands simultaneously and aimed steadily at her. Hermione looked like she would die in a panic.

"Peace," Dumbledore said. "She was just, I presume, about to perform a simple Hovering Charm?"

"Featherweight Charm, actually," Hermione said matter-of-factly, although she still looked nervous. "And _then_ a Hovering Charm. You see, the two charms combined are over one-fifth more efficient than a single, more powerful—"

"Nobody asked for a lecture, Miss Granger," Snape snapped.

"Five points for Gryffindor," McGonagall said simultaneously. Upon hearing Snape's remark, she added, "That's really rather clever, Miss Granger."

The Aurors put away their wands, looking somewhat sheepish at having drawn on a twelve year-old girl. The two Heads of Houses glared at each other as. Hermione carefully weighed both buckets (dispelling the Featherweight Charm in the process, of course). Then she nodded at Milo.

"Thanks," he muttered as she walked past him to her earlier position.

"Any time," she said simply. She looked a bit stunned.

"Oh, before you begin," said Bode, "you should probably be informed that a number of anti-cheating enchantments have been placed in this classroom."

Milo paused.

"Explain," he asked.

"Obviously I can't go into too much detail, but suffice to say that we'll be well aware of any magical illusions that you create, or if you try to add anything to the potion without our knowledge."

Milo frowned. _This shouldn't cause any problems_, he thought. Invisibility _is the only Illusion I'll be casting, and it isn't really an Illusion that I _create_, exactly. That sounds like more of a Figment or Glamer._

_Hopefully._

_Well, I'd best begin. No time like the present._ Pushing his fear and nervousness to the side, Milo tried to emulate the tone of a performing Bard he once heard back in Myra (cityoflight!cityof_magic_!).

"All right. Professors, Minister, Officials, Government Goons, just sit back; you're about to see _magic _done," Milo announced confidently, rolling up his sleeves.

"What does he think he is, a stage magician?" Fudge murmured quietly.

"This reminds me of a time I was in a tavern back in my world," Milo said as he unceremoniously dumped the bucket of thick, slimy Flobberworm mucous into the cauldron. "It was a nice little place, as far as roadside taverns go. Their soup was _terrible_. It went by the name of _Tenser's Floating Disko_," he said, casting the spell. Fortunately enough, the story was true. A retired Wizard built the entire establishment hovering two feet off the ground using a copious number of Immovable Rods; _The Disko _was famed far and wide for its resilience to earthquakes, its _Dancing Lights_, and its terrible soup.

"Isn't he only eleven?" Fudge asked in astonishment. "What tavern would—"

"But that, of course, was in another world," Milo said, pouring the glycerol into the cauldron. Snape looked as if he were about to duck beneath his desk for cover. Unbeknownst to the audience, the thick liquid hit, instead of the water in the cauldron, Milo's magical disk. "A world which now seems to exist only in the hazy reaches of my memory, and every day seems to be slipping deeper into the murky depths of _Invisibility_." In the blink of an eye, the glycerol (which, if anyone had looked, would have appeared to be floating in the air inside the darkness of the cauldron) vanished.

Milo grabbed his ladle and dipped it into the cauldron in the area between the force disk and the edge. The pot was so huge that, in order to stir it, he'd have to actually walk around the perimeter of the cast iron monstrosity. When he was about three-quarters of the way around, he began to speak again.

"And this, as you will soon see, was no mere sleight of hand, legerdemain, or," he completed the circuit, "_Prestidigitation_."

The pot bubbled.

Milo almost couldn't believe that he might actually be getting away with it. He'd made the damned pot bubble, nothing had exploded, and Lucius's plot was foiled. He felt lightheaded. He wanted to go back to the Gryffindor Common Room and celebr—

"Curious," Dumbledore said, raising his half-moon spectacles.

Snape smiled triumphantly.

"In this manner I will, of course, defer to the Potions Master," Dumbledore said, "but... tell me, Severus, does this potion _usually _bubble?"

Milo froze.

"No doubt, it's bubbling because of how _vigorously_ young Milo wanted his potion to succeed," Snape suggested with amusement. Milo looked around the room in a panic as Snape moved excitedly towards the cauldron to investigate.

_It's not supposed to bubble? _He'd miscalculated Snape. The devious Potions Master had _anticipated_ Milo's ability to fake the effects of the potion and hadn't told him truthfully what they should, in fact, be.

Milo looked pleadingly at Dumbledore, and then at McGonagall, but neither offered him any help. He was sure to be ousted as a fake wizard and expelled from Hogwarts, falling right into Lucius's (presumably) evil plot (whatever it happened to be). _Tap. Tap. Tap._ Snape's polished leather loafers made loud, echoing sounds as the greasy Potions Master approached. In blind desperation, Milo looked into the faces of the Minister, his cronies, and even the mooks. _I need help_, he thought frantically. _I need someone who knows what—oh, right._

Catching Hermione's eye, she mouthed _it turns purple_. Milo had heard that, in the distant past, only Rogues were able to read lips. He was blissfully happy that this was no longer the case.

Fortunately, _Prestidigitation_ (which, in Milo's firm opinion, was the best spell ever invented) could last up to an hour—_and _it could recolour liquids. The spell wasn't an Illusion (it _actually_ changed the object's colour), so it (hopefully) wouldn't trigger their wards. By the time Snape got to the cauldron, the liquid inside was a pale shade of violet. Milo could _feel_ his heart pounding against his chest as he waited for the anti-cheating alarms to sound. He nearly fainted with relief when nothing happened, although the "potion" still had to pass one more step... Milo just hoped he'd got the shade of purple right.

Snape peered inside suspiciously, and then did something Milo hadn't anticipated.

To Milo's horror, Snape picked up the ladle. As he moved to dip it into the pot (presumably to investigate the potion), Milo ran through his options. _Tenser's Floating Disk_ was _not_ a dismissible spell; at Milo's level, it would be blocking the majority of the cauldron's opening for another five hours. Snape was sure to discover the invisible force disk, and Milo would be expelled. Then (presumably) killed horribly by Death Eaters.

"Sorry, _what _was that Hermione?" Milo asked loudly, improvising wildly. "You require help tying your shoes because your arm was grievously injured while Snape was supposed to be protecting you from a Troll? Why, of _course_ I can help you!" Technically, no lies. Milo bolted towards Hermione as fast as he could run.

Milo collapsed at Hermione's feet and started fumbling with her laces.

"_What on Earth are you—_" she asked, surprised.

"_Tenser's Floating Disk_ disappears if you move out of the spell's range," Milo explained quietly. "I need to get another ten feet away from the cauldron before Snape realizes what's going on." Hermione's back was to the door; ten feet would put Milo well into the hallway.

"Your rat," Hermione whispered. "Ask him to run out, and chase him."

"Good plan. Mordy?"

"Don't need to tell me twice, boss," Milo's familiar squeaked. Mordy leapt out of Milo's belt and made a mad dash for the exit.

Snape dipped the ladle into the cauldron, and Milo heard a quiet _thud_ as the steel instrument hit his force bowl.

Snape blinked.

"_What—_" he began.

"Mordenkainen!" Milo shouted, and pursued. Shortly after he reached the exit, he heard a muffled splash from the cauldron as the _Tenser's Floating Disk_ winked out of existence.

"Here, now!" Fudge said. "We can't just have him _leave_."

There was a brief pause.

"Everyone duck for cover!" someone shouted. Evidentially, they had taken Milo's flight to mean that the potion was about to explode.

"_Accio Milo_," one of the Auror's muttered, and Milo felt a strange tug in the region of his stomach. The next thing he knew, he was being pulled to the centre of the room by invisible hands. It was a _weird_ feeling.

"You'll have to look for your rat later, Milo," Bode said in his dry monotone. "We can't allow you to leave until the inquiries are closed."

"Right, of course," Milo said. _Careful not to lie_, he reminded himself. "I'm only eleven; eleven year olds are notoriously flighty."

"Don't need to tell _me_ twice," McGonagall muttered.

Snape, who had evidently been distracted by Milo's unexpected flight, began to test the potion again. As soon as his ladle entered the cauldron, Milo had a burst of mad inspiration.

"I think I've more than proved that I'm a legitimate _Mage, Hand_ me that quill, Headmaster, would you?"

"Sorry, what was that?" Fudge asked. Milo concentrated on the _Mage Hand_ spell (a handy (sorry), weak telekinesis), and, targeting the _water_ in the cauldron (_Mage Hand_ can't target held objects, such as Snape's ladle) Milo created a small current which forced the ladle to move in a _very tiny _counterclockwise circle.

Snape frowned. He wasn't sure if it was a trick of his eye, but he could have _sworn_ that the purple potion became slightly darker as he stared at it.

"I was just asking the Headmaster to hand me the quill on his desk," Milo said. "But on second thought, I realize, I don't need it. How's the potion check out, Professor Snape?"

"I think your student might be a bit _funny_," Fudge said not quite quietly enough to Dumbledore. "A tad... _off in the head_, if you catch my meaning."

"I am _quite_ sorry," Dumbledore said apologetically. "I didn't bring my fishing rod! I had no idea we were going out to catch meanings on this fine evening. Why, once, when I was a boy, my brother and I caught a meaning that weighed—"

McGonagall coughed again.

"—but perhaps that story is best told later," Dumbledore said.

Fudge sighed and muttered something under his breath. Milo wasn't sure, but he _thought_ he caught the words '_surrounded by nutters_' somewhere in there.

Snape carefully extracted a small amount of the potion with his ladle and stared at it in astonishment.

"Well?" the Minister pressed. "What's the verdict, Severus?"

Snape stared at the contents of the cauldron, his face livid with barely contained rage.

"_You_." He said, turning to Milo. His voice was like a _Polar Ray_ with a confirmed critical. "If I _ever_ find out how you did this, _boy_, you'll rue the day your mother first laid eyes on your fath_—_"

"_Severus_," Dumbledore said reproachfully. Snape reined himself in with obvious effort.

"I have the... _unequaled pleasure—_" Snape said through clenched teeth, but Milo was pretty sure he meant the other thing, "_—_to say that this potion is, against all odds and reason... _adequate_."

McGonagall looked relieved, Bode appeared somewhat disappointed (Milo was willing to bet Bode hoped he'd discovered some form of new and exotic humanoid monster in Milo), while Dumbledore (and _only _Dumbledore) started clapping. Hermione stood in the corner beaming at him. Best of all, he earned 800 XP. _That alone will cover _months _of item crafting_, Milo thought.

"Ruddy waste of time, this was," Fudge complained to Umbridge as the Ministry officials filed out. "Wonder why he insisted it be done so late at night—and on a weekend, too?"

"Minerva," Dumbledore asked politely, "would you please take Miss Granger back to the hospital wing?"

"Of course, Albus," McGonagall said politely, and moved to the injured girl. Snape was pacing back and forth by the cauldron, fuming.

"Milo," Dumbledore said, "I understand that it's late, and you have class tomorrow, but_—_would you mind coming to my office for a brief chat?"

"Of course, Headmaster," Milo said politely. There were no rules _anywhere_ for sleep deprivation, ergo, Milo could stay up as late as he wanted.

The eccentric Headmaster led Milo through the labyrinthine castle, up the stairs (skipping, unconsciously, the trick step in the second-floor staircase) and, at last, to a random dead end.

"Uh," Milo said. "Your office isn't just out here in the hall, is it?"

"_Sherbet Lemon_," Dumbledore said.

"That's... not really an answer, you know."

"Ah, young Milo, in that, you are wrong."

A nearby gargoyle statue slowly began to move.

"Holycrapgargoyle!" Milo shrieked. "_Glitterdust!_" He held out his hand, but nothing happened. _Right,_ he thought, embarrassed. _I'm _completely _out of spells._ Until he had a chance to prepare new spells, Milo was basically a Commoner with a high Will save and a pet rat.

The gargoyle, however, proved to be merely a statue, which rose as it turned, revealing a spiral staircase.

"Sweet entrance," Milo said appreciatively.

"No pun intended?" Dumbledore asked wryly.

"What?"

"Well, you said _sweet_ entrance, and the password, of course, is my favourite form of sweet..."

Milo stared at him blankly.

The Headmaster just sighed and began climbing the formidable staircase.

Dumbledore's office was _awesome_. There was simply no other word to describe it. Wondrous Items of all sorts decorated every flat surface that Milo could see; many of which were ticking at inconsistent, conflicting speeds—no doubt, Milo assumed, to confuse his enemies. Up on the walls were more animated portraits looking down at them, and, in the corner, lay the sorting hat.

"Please, sit down," Dumbledore said. "Can I get you anything? Cocoa? Tea?"

"That first one," Milo requested. "I have _no _idea what it is."

Dumbledore waved his wand lazily, and a large mug of hot cocoa appeared in front of Milo. _They have a spell for _that? Milo wondered._ Just for conjuring steaming hot mugs of cocoa?_

"You're probably wondering why I've invited you here," Dumbledore said. _Unless, of course, it's a spell that summons arbitrary hot drinks._

"Actually, I was wondering what spell you used to conjure the drinks," Milo said, then frowned. _Wait, why on the Prime Material did I just say that?_

"A nonverbal variant of the Summoning Charm," Dumbledore shrugged. "Created by Helga Hufflepuff herself to summon food from the kitchens of Hogwarts. It only works within the grounds."

_I must still be under the effects of the Veritaserum,_ Milo realized. Was that why Dumbledore had summoned him up here now?

"_Now_ you're probably wondering why I've invited you here?" Dumbledore asked, somewhat hopefully.

"No, I was wondering if you'd invited me here now because I'm still compelled to speak only the truth," Milo said. _Aarrrgh!_

Dumbledore chuckled.

"As much as I feel the world could do with a little more honesty, no, that's not the reason. I was travelling the past few days—Wizengamot business, you understand—and my sleep schedule is quite turned upside-down. This was the first in quite some time that I've had a spare moment, in fact."

"I see," Milo said. "Okay, I'll bite. _Now _I'm wondering why you've invited me here."

"I wanted to know how you did it," Dumbledore said.

"Did what?" Milo asked.

"Faked the potion well enough to fool Snape. That's no easy task, you know."

Milo froze. He nearly dropped his cocoa (which, by the way, was _delicious_).

"Oh, don't worry," Dumbledore said. "I'm not the Ministry. You're not in trouble."

Milo only then realized how vulnerable he was. No spells. No familiar. No-one who knew where he was. No escape plan. No ability to lie.

"I used magic to keep the mucous from mixing with the glycerol," Milo confessed, "then ended the spell right as Snape tested the potion. I then used some very weak telekinesis to cause Snape to accidentally stir the liquid, thus completing the final step in creating the potion."

"You mean to say that _Snape_ created that potion?" Dumbledore asked, amazed. Then he burst out laughing, and continued to do so until there were tears in his eyes. "I haven't laughed so hard in days," he admitted. "And don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

"Yeah, I guess it _is_ pretty funny," Milo conceded. "And thanks."

"Don't mention it. Not since the days of Emeric the Evil were Headmasters involved in the business of having their students executed. But that wasn't the only reason I asked you here."

"Oh?"

"You fought a Troll on Hallowe'en," Dumbledore said, "instead of doing the sensible thing and letting trained, fully-qualified adult witches and wizards handle it. Why?"

"It came at me," Milo said.

"You could have run for it," Dumbledore countered.

"It had me cornered."

"You could have jumped out the window," Dumbledore pressed. "You have, after all, a spell for that exact purpose."

Milo frowned. He _could _have easily escaped the Troll with _Feather Fall_, now that he thought about it.

"The thought never occurred to me," Milo answered honestly.

"Why not?" Dumbledore asked. "For nearly anyone else in the world, it would be the _only_ thought that occurred to them."

"It's not what I do," Milo said. "Running away from monsters, that is."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.

"But, have you ever asked yourself, _why not_?"

"I... no. No, I haven't," Milo paused. "But only because I haven't had to. I'm an adventurer. Fighting monsters is what I _do_."

"Because you're an adventurer? So you do it... for the sense of adventure?"

"No, that's not it at all. It's... it's hard to explain." How do you explain to someone something that's so _obvious_? Adventurers fight monsters. That's just how it _is_. You'd have as much luck trying to explain to someone _why_ two and two made four.

"You're a smart boy. Try."

"I'm a PC. An adventurer. A hero. When there's a monster, or an evil necromancer, or a murderer, or whatever, it's my job to take him out."

"But in this case, in Hogwarts, there are others who could fight that Troll, do that job, at least as well as you could."

"It... it doesn't matter. I was there. The Troll was there. It happened for a _reason_; I was _supposed_ to fight that Troll."

"You're a bit young to have set so much stock in fate."

"Not fate. Planning by a higher power."

"By God?" Dumbledore asked.

"Hah, no. In my experience, gods spend too much time fighting amongst themselves and making powerful, yet shockingly unoptimized, magical artifacts and holy relics to plan people's lives out."

"Then... who?"

"The same entity that makes sure that, eventually, a villain will _always_ be defeated by a hero. That arranges for Draco and Harry to be the same age, at the same school. That arranges for the Philosopher's Stone to be hidden at that same school in their first year. That keeps the background world running when we're not looking at it."

"That sounds like fate to me," Dumbledore said. "Except maybe for that last one."

Milo simply shrugged.

"So, you believe it is your _fate_ to fight monsters?" Dumbledore pressed.

"I... I don't think I'm being clear," Milo said. "I fight monsters. I'm an adventurer. A hero. It's a fact of life. There's no _why_ to it, it's just... how my life goes."

"Is it to protect innocent lives?" Dumbledore asked.

"Not... really. But when it happens, that's a perk, I suppose."

"To right great imbalances in the universe?"

"No. Are there great imbalances I wasn't aware of?"

"Not to my knowledge. Is it for revenge?"

"No. I don't have anything I feel all that... _bitter_ about."

"For the thrill, then?"

"I don't do _anything_ for the thrill of it."

"For glory and respect?"

"No, without Leadership, glory's about as useful as Skill Focus (Craft (Basketweaving))."

"And you don't see yourself as a leader, then?"

"A planner, maybe, but... a leader? One who stands on a crate and gives inspiring speeches to a bunch of low-level Commoners and Warriors? No, I'll leave that to someone else. What's with all the questions, Headmaster?"

Dumbledore sighed heavily.

"I've known witches and wizards—and more than a few Muggles, for that matter—who set forth to battle evil without any clear motivation for doing so. They... tend to fit into one of two categories. Either they discover the reason within themselves later, and go on to do great things, or, more often... they fall."

"They die? Because I'd have to disagree, Professor; Neutral adventurers tend to be much more pragmatic and level-headed and overall _far _less likely to die some a stupid sacrifice or last stand than Good ones."

"Sometimes they do," Dumbledore admitted soberly. "But more often, they find themselves becoming what they once fought."

"What, they go Evil? I don't think I'm in any danger of _that_. It's just not... in character." Milo sighed. "I'm not... I'm not really equipped to discuss philosophy, Headmaster."

"And why is that?"

"I... I fight monsters," he said firmly. "I kick down doors. I find treasure. I gain Experience. I spend an inordinate amount of time in taverns. I operate best in groups of four. I solve mysteries. I use magic. I don't... the discussion of _why_ very rarely comes up. And even then... if it did, the reason for it would suddenly appear in my head. Poof. Like it had always been there, the same as if you asked me what my parents' names were. It's like a part of me, the part that makes those decisions and created the history and the hopes and dreams... it's gone. I'm just the collection of stats and spells with a race and alignment. I don't know how to explain it; to my knowledge this has never happened to anyone before. It's like... like I'm a character in a play, and the player was left behind when I was brought here."

"Maybe," said Dumbledore, "it's time you started to think for yourself? To be more than a simple mask?"

"Are you suggesting..."

"If you're a character," Dumbledore shrugged, "I don't see any reason why you can't be your _own_ player."

Milo stared at the Headmaster, completely dumbstruck.

"And now, I believe, it is time for us both to go to bed. You seem to be quite recovered, but would you do me one more favour and spend the night in the hospital wing? You'll see why tomorrow," Dumbledore said.

"Sure," Milo shrugged. He was used to sleeping in the wilderness and in ancient crypts, anyways. While a step-and-a-half down from the four-poster beds in Gryffindor tower, the hospital cots were a great deal more comfortable than a bedroll—not, when it came to it, that Milo much cared.

"Goodnight, Milo."

"'Night, Professor."

Milo was already halfway back to the hospital wing when he realized that, when Dumbledore asked him how he faked the potion, it meant he _actually believed_ that Milo was a different sort of Wizard.

_What does he know that I don't? Or rather... what does he know that I know that I don't know he knows?_

_And why does Lucius want me expelled?_

_And who really killed the acromantula? And why was it missing a fang?_

The lack of injuries on the nonetheless dead spider implied one thing...

Death Effect.

The Killing Curse.


	14. Chapter 14: Talking is a Free Action

Author's Notes: To my knowledge, Rowling doesn't ever say exactly how large a gold galleon is, but the Harry Potter Wiki said that the ones used in the movies were the same size as an American Silver Eagle (57.2g if it were gold). Gold pieces are 1/50th of a pound (9.071g) each, so some number crunching gave me an exchange rate of 6.30854106 gp per galleon, assuming both have equivalent gold purities.

P.S: the short break, o—o, denotes a flash between simultaneous events in one location and another rather than a full scene break. You'll see what I mean.

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

Snape was decidedly more unpleasant towards Milo (and Gryffindor as a whole) in Potions on Monday, presumably because of Milo's near-escape from Snape's test over the weekend.

"You're holding your knife upside-down," Snape sneered at Milo as he sat chopping Knarl tail. "Fifteen points from Gryffindor."

Milo looked down at the knife. He was no expert on weapons (he left that to Fighters and other use-impaired character classes), but the knife's blade was sort of triangular and, by any account, perfectly symmetrical. Personally, he didn't much care, at least now Harry was suffering proportionally less abuse. As soon as Snape's back was turned, Milo siphoned off several potion ingredients into his Belt of Hidden Pouches. He figured he could cut his research and development costs somewhat using pilfered supplies.

It was with an intense feeling of relief that they left the dungeon.

"Oh," Milo remembered suddenly. "I should go see McGonagall, she asked me to see her on Friday but I got mauled by a 'Troll' instead."

"You... you put off seeing McGonagall just because of a Troll?" Ron asked, his face pale with horror.

"_Run!_" Hermione said, panicked.

Fortunately, their stern Head of House did not seem to mind as much as Ron and Hermione had feared she would that Milo had missed their appointment for frivolous reasons.

"So, erm, you wanted to talk to me about Transfigurations?" Milo asked her nervously.

"Well, I have to admit I was worried that Professor Snape might have been right about you," McGonagall said apologetically, "but, fortunately, you're just as much a wizard as he is—meaning, of course, that there's absolutely no reason that you can't succeed in Transfiguration."

Milo swallowed nervously.

"So, I believe the best thing for you would be to receive some extra help. With this in mind, I've requested that Professor Snape allow you to serve some of your further detentions with me twice a week so I can give you remedial lessons."

"Th-that doesn't sound so bad," Milo lied. _Remedial Transfiguration?_ He would _certainly_ forget to tell this to Hermione. "Thank you, Professor."

"Come to the Transfigurations classroom promptly at seven o'clock every Tuesday and Thursday," she said seriously, "and I'll eat my hat if we don't see some improvement." McGonagall glanced at the clock on her wall. "Well, you'd best be leaving if you don't want to be late for History of Magic."

As Milo walked to Binns' classroom, he decided fervently that the first spell he was going to research would be one that turned his matchstick into a pin. The only problem was that he couldn't think of any spells he'd ever heard of at his level that could even come close to doing that.

The reason for Dumbledore's odd request that Milo sleep in the hospital wing became immediately apparent upon his return to the Gryffindor Common Room Monday afternoon.

"All hail the conquering Troll slayers!" Fred cried as Milo, Hermione, Harry, and Ron climbed through the portal after their last class.

"No part of that sentence is accurate," Milo tried to say, but nobody heard him over the sudden tumultuous roar. It seemed the entire Gryffindor house had turned out to congratulate them for... not _quite_ defeating a 'Troll'. Fred and George had procured food (read: cakes and sweets) and drinks (read: butterbeer) from somewhere.

"Harry and Ron insisted we wait for you two to get out of the hospital wing before celebrating," said George. "Insisted you two did the real work."

"Dumbledore tipped us off that you'd be out today," said Fred.

_Well,_ Milo thought,_ that solves the Mystery of Dumbledore Asking Me to Wait a Day_. _If only the Mystery of Who Killed the Acromantula were so simple._

Someone had drawn a surprisingly good (if somewhat over-dramatic) scene of Hermione casting the Gust Jinx on the Troll on a banner hanging from the wall. They'd even bewitched it to move, complete with massive explosion as a grand finale. Hermione turned slightly pink; Milo didn't think she was used to being the centre of attention.

"'Course, the Hufflepuffs are all likely permanently scarred," Fred said.

"Yeah, having a Troll get blasted through your bedroom is likely to do that," said his twin.

"Putting a tree in their common room likely didn't help much, also."

"That said, even they're willing to admit it was pretty awesome."

"Sprout was furious—but only until she got a good look at the tree, mind."

While the twins were talking, Hermione and Milo were lifted up by a crowd of NPCs and passed around.

_This is... unusual_, Milo thought. He was more used to being presented with bags of gold or magic items as a reward for defeating a monster, but... well, having the Gryffindors throw a party for his party wasn't entirely unpleasant. He could _definitely_ get used to this.

"They're teaching 'The Hermione' in magical self-defence courses around Britain," said Fred. "Some handsome devil leaked it to the _Daily Prophet_."

"Why, _thank_ you," said George.

"But it was _Harry's_ idea," Hermione protested, but nobody paid her any mind. The Boy-Who-Lived, it appeared, was more than happy to step out of the limelight for once.

"And to think," Lavender said to Parvati, "I always thought she was just an insufferable know-it-all!"

When the party finally wrapped up (well after a reasonable hour) and the Gryffindors trudged off to bed, Milo realized that he hadn't been so happy in _ages_.

o—o—o—o

The entirety of Gryffindor house, and to a lesser extent the Hogwarts student body as a whole, became increasingly excited as the first Quidditch match of the season loomed. Milo was surprised to find that, against all narrative convention, the tournament was to be opened with Gryffindor playing Slytherin on Friday.

"It's just _wrong_," Milo said to Harry after the black-haired boy returned, covered in mud, from last-minute practice on Tuesday. "You _can't _play Slytherin on your first match."

"Don't need to tell me twice," Harry said nervously. He'd seen their team captain a few days prior. Flint (Slytherin's team captain), Harry thought, could have been a distant cousin or nephew of the Hallowe'en Troll.

"You should be fighting them _last_," Milo pressed. "After a series of ever more difficult games that proportionally match your Quidditch skills. This just doesn't jive."

"Wouldn't _that _be something," Harry muttered tiredly. He flopped lazily onto one of the Common Room's overstuffed armchairs. Between Gryffindor's communal detentions, his homework (Snape seemed to be assigning the whole class extra work _solely _to keep Harry occupied before the match) and Wood's frantic Quidditch practice sessions, he'd hardly had any time to relax since his release from the hospital wing. Milo, as usual, had his nose buried in his spellbook, proving about as indefatigable as Hermione when it came to studying—although the similarities broke down shortly after that. While Hermione was practically obsessed with her homework, she was scandalized by how little Milo cared about his school-related studies when, on Wednesday, Milo turned in his assignment for Defence Against the Dark Arts (eighteen inches of parchment on Vampires), which was revealed to be a page full of weird numbers and data, seemingly filled in at random.

"So, about this match tomorrow—" Milo began.

"Don't mention it," said Harry. "_Please_."

"Oh, okay," Milo said, sounding somewhat hurt. "I was just going to say that I think I can keep you from getting grievously injured by Bludgers. No big deal, though."

Harry paused. There was a short, but noticeable, glint in his eye.

"_Really_, now?" he asked.

"_Mage Armour,_" Milo muttered. "There. You're surrounded by an invisible force field."

"You're just putting me on, aren't you," said Harry suspiciously.

"No, it's true. Watch this," Milo said, and threw a nearby mug at Harry.

"Ow!" Harry said, as the ceramic cup hit him in the chest. "That _really _hurt!" (in the background, ignored by everyone, was a quiet "_Hey!_ That was my mug!" from Neville).

"Uh," said Milo. "Look, nobody can predict rolling a 20, okay? Happens to the best of us. Let me try again." Milo picked up a Sickle (the silver coin, not the Simple Weapon).

"No!" Harry said, raising his arms to cover his head. "I'll just... I'll just trust you on this one, okay? I'm protected by an invisible force field that will help against speeding Bludgers but can't stop small ceramic cocoa mugs. I'm going to bed."

Harry started climbing the staircase to the tower that held their dorm room.

"Oh, wait," Milo said suddenly, "I'd been meaning to ask you something."

"Sure, what's up?" Harry asked sleepily.

"Well, you've got all these piles and piles of gold, right?"

"Look," said Harry seriously. "I didn't ask for them, right? I can't help being rich—"

"No, it's not that at all. The thing is, well, I need your help."

Harry frowned, all trace of exhaustion gone.

"Sure. What can I do?"

"Well," said Milo, feeling somewhat awkward about asking a friend for money, "you've probably noticed that I tend to use the same spells a lot."

"Uh, yeah, I guess."

"That's because where I come from, Wizards mostly learn spells from other Wizards. But there aren't any of those here," ("Hey!" said Neville) "so I have to develop all of my spells myself."

"But I'm rubbish with spells," Harry said. "You should ask Hermione for help."

"I don't, er, need your, um, expertise, exactly. You see, I get two free spells per level, but to get any others I need weeks of research and access to expensive materials."

"Oh," said Harry. "So you need money."

"...Yeah. But it's for a good cause—you know, fighting Evil and stuff."

"Sure, how much?"

"And I know of _numerous_ ways in which I can turn 3rd-level spells into a way to make us _phenomenal _amounts of gold—"

"No, look, really, it's okay."

"—so I'll be able to pay you back when I get some free time, probably over the holidays."

"I don't mind, it's not like I'm using it for anything."

"Oh. You mean, you'll really share the loot?"

"'Course, we're friends. Although I sort of object to calling my parents' money _loot_—"

"Swag, then."

Harry sighed, but decided to ignore it.

"How much do you need?"

"You're not going to like it."

"Just tell me."

Milo told him. Harry didn't like it.

"A _thousand_ galleons?" Harry spluttered.

"No, a thousand _gold pieces_. Galleons are quite a lot wider and thicker than your standard gp," Milo explained. "There's closer to six and a third gold pieces per galleon."

"So..." Harry said blankly.

"158 galleons, 12 sickles, and 12 knuts. Per week, that is."

Harry choked.

"Half that much again every day and I can make magic items, too."

"You know what? I don't even _want_ to know," said Harry. Milo's hopes deflated. It looked like he'd be stuck here without any spells or magic items after all. "I'll write to Gringotts," Harry said, however. "I dunno exactly what the procedure is for transporting great heaps of gold halfway across Britain, but I'm sure the goblins will think of something."

Milo grinned.

"_Thank you_. I mean it. We're talking direct money-to-power translation, here. I'll pay you back in a few levels."

Milo climbed into his four-poster bed feeling like he was on top of the world.

o—o—o—o

"We have to _kill_ Milo," Draco announced to Crabbe and Goyle Tuesday morning.

"Yeah boss, kill him!" said Crabbe.

"Sure boss, uh..." faltered Goyle.

"Try murder," Malfoy suggested wearily, "or dispatch."

"Sure boss, murder him!" said Goyle, who had never used the word _dispatch_ before and was frightened to try.

o—o

"We have to kill Malfoy," Milo announced to his party Tuesday morning.

"Hear, hear!" Ron voiced his agreement. "S'what I've been saying for _ages_."

"Wait," said Harry slowly. "When you say _kill_..."

"What'd he do this time?" Hermione asked with a yawn.

o—o

"Thus summer, he broke into my father's summer home," said Malfoy imperiously, "and made off with the prototype Nimbus Two Thousand and One that Father had. It can't have been a random act of burglary because it was all done up like a regular Two Thousand—he'd have to have known it was there. I mean, how unlikely would it be that he just so _happened_ to grab the _one_ test Nimbus Two Thousand and One in all of England? There is only _one_ possible conclusion," Malfoy paused dramatically.

o—o

"This Hallowe'en," Milo said theatrically, "he boasted about the Cuddly Cannons defeating the Wigtown Whatevers at that big game thing" (adventurers are notoriously bad about getting long names right) "admitting he was behind it. Now, I thought, 'what could a Quidditch match _possibly_ have anything to do with anything?' when it hit me: the Nimbus Two Thousand. I grabbed one off a Death Eater once, and Harry got one in the mail, and thus it is on our _list_ and therefore of relevance to the plot. The Cannons were all riding Nimbuses donated by Lucius Malfoy, who has connections to the Nimbus corporation. There is only _one_ possible conclusion," Milo paused dramatically.

o—o

"Milo is working for Firebolt."

o—o

"Malfoy is working for the Dark Lord."

o—o

"What's Firebolt?" Crabbe asked, his forehead wrinkled in a gruesome imitation of human thought.

Malfoy sighed.

"A wreck of a broomstick manufacturer; everything they make is a total disaster. Remember? The guys who made the brooms the Wanderers were testing?"

Crabbe stared at Malfoy blankly.

"You're _hopeless_, Goyle," Malfoy muttered to Crabbe.

"Yeah, you're _hopeless_, Goyle," Goyle said to Crabbe.

"Yeah, I'm _helpless_, Crabbe," Crabbe said to Goyle.

"Anyways. The guys working for my father at Nimbus are the best in the world. The Two Thousand is only a few months old but it's already a hopeless antique compared to what they've got planned for the next one. Firebolt would _kill_ to get their hands on it and learn its secrets. We _can't_ let that happen."

o—o

"Seems a bit of a stretch, don't it?" Ron asked.

With a showy gesture, a massive chart appeared in the air behind Milo (in actuality, it was a _Silent Image_ that Milo had cast several minutes prior and had been concentrating on it the whole time while his partymembers woke up. Yes, it would have been easier to just cast it then (or simply used a chart) but he felt this was more impressive).

There was a brief pause.

"Blimey," Ron said, though Milo had yet to figure out, exactly, what that word meant.

"What are we looking at?" Harry asked. Milo's hovering chart had a variety of names and events (such as Lucius Malfoy, Snape, the Stone, You-Know-Who, Poisoning and the Troll) written neatly, connected by lines and arrows of various colours.

"This," Milo explained, "is the _plot_. On the right are the villains in order of ascending level: Draco, who is Lucius' son and is working with his head of house, Snape; Snape, who is secretly the minion of Lucius Malfoy; Lucius who is an ex-Death Eater and loyal minion of You-Know-Who."

"Er," Hermione said cautiously. "What, _exactly_, do you mean by _level_?"

"Uh," Milo faltered. "Power. Importance. You know, the order in which we'll face them. Further left are the suspicious camps of unsorted villainy: the elves and their goblin servants, the Death Eaters, the Cuddly Cannons, and Fudge"

Ron and Harry were silent. Hermione simply sighed, shaking her head and muttering quietly to herself.

o—o

"So... what's Milo doing at Hogwarts, then?" Goyle asked. Malfoy shuddered inwardly at the amount of effort that sentence must have cost him.

"Isn't it obvious? Milo's here to secretly befriend _Potter_" (Malfoy said the last word with a contemptuous sneer) "who _just so happened_ to get a Nimbus Two Thousand in the mail shortly after arriving here."

Crabbe and Goyle both blankly blinked back in unison.

"It's the prototype!" Malfoy shrieked at them. "_Someone_ recently handed a perfectly ordinary-looking Two Thousand over to the DMLE in September and then _days later_ Potter gets one in the mail and, with it, _stunning_ new flying talents despite never having ridden a broomstick before. They've switched them! What else could explain _Potter_'s little stunt with the Remembrall?"

"Maybe he's just really good at flying?" Crabbe suggested.

"Yeah boss, maybe he's just, despite his young age, so unbelievably talented at—"

"_Shut up!_" Malfoy commanded. "And then he _just so happens_ to be allowed onto the Quidditch team despite being too young? It's all a conspiracy! McGonagall or someone somehow managed to get Milo's stolen broom from him and gave it to _Potter_ so Gryffindor would have a chance at the cup. Then she went out and bought a Nimbus—I checked, they have it on record at Diagon Alley—and turned _that_ in to the Ministry hoping nobody would notice."

o—o

"So, let's go through this chronologically. I was attacked in the Forbidden Forest by an Acromantula under highly suspicious circumstances, and the evidence suggests that someone iced the thing with a Killing Curse—highly advanced dark magic. The only people nearby were Quirrell, Hagrid, and Harry. As Hagrid can't do magic and we can obviously rule out Harry, that points to _Quirrell_—" (Milo traced a blue line from _Quirrell_ to _Acromantula_ on his chart).

"That _can't_ be your only reason for ruling out Hagrid," Harry said, offended.

"—but that's no reason to believe it wasn't Snape, hiding somewhere in the forest," (Milo traced a line to Snape) "which kicks things up the ladder to Lucius, as, thanks to my furry friend, we now know is Snape's secret master, and eventually Lord Voldewhatsit.

"Next," Milo continued over Hermione's objections, "someone tried to poison my breakfast and missed. This poisoning was facilitated by the elves in the kitchen staff; nobody else could have got close to the food" (Milo pointed at their name on the chart, "under instructions from Draco, Snape, or Lucius during Draco's Quidditch distraction.)

"But I thought you said—" Ron said, but was cut off.

"While it is true that I _did _confront Draco about this and decided it wasn't him, my view changed when I found out that his father, Lucius, was having covert meetings with Snape in the Forbidden Forest. Lucius ordered Snape to have me expelled, presumably so Lucius can kill me while I'm no longer protected by the wards and Dumbledore. 'Maybe,' I realized, 'it's time we stopped ignoring Draco as a legitimate threat.' I'd bet—no, in fact, I'm _certain_ of the fact that Draco's up to something devious, and likely highly dangerous, _as we speak_."

o—o

"So, I wrote Father and asked him to ensure that there was a Cannons victory on Hallowe'en—he, of course, did so without question or hesitation—to make Firebolt look bad and make Milo crack. And _Merlin_ did it ever work!" Draco said exuberantly. "The nutter tried to end things for himself by the tried-and-true _suicide by Troll_ method. Shame Snape was there to save him; _really_, I'd have thought better of him."

Draco paused to catch his breath.

"So," he said with a hint of finality, "we need to act, _fast_, before he can recover. Milo's had _far_ too long with _Potter _to study the prototype for my liking. We need to stop that _now_. The Friday Quidditch match with Gryffindor is the perfect opportunity."

o—o

"And _then_," Milo continued, "someone released a Troll on Hallowe'en. While this would point pretty clearly to Quirrell, who seems to be a bit of an expert on Trolls, it just doesn't fit. Why would Quirrell release one right after teaching us all how to defend ourselves against Trolls? And besides," he added, "Snape's behaviour was _more_ than suspicious. As soon as he heard about the Troll, he rushed, not to the second floor, where the Troll was supposed to be, but to the _third floor_, where we suspect they're hiding the Philosopher's Stone."

Even Hermione frowned at that.

"That _is_ a little odd," she said at last. "You don't think... you don't think _Professor Snape _is trying to get the Stone?"

"A bit slow on the uptake, are we?" Milo asked. Hermione turned a bit pink. "Snape used the Troll as a distraction to get to the Stone and, likely, to kill me. He nearly succeeded on both counts."

Milo traced a line from the Troll to Snape to the Stone.

"Snape's backup plan, however, was _already_ in the works. He'd devised a potion to oust me as a different type of wizard and have me expelled from Hogwarts which is when I met Fudge, your Minister for Magic. At first, I couldn't tell if he was pawn or chessmaster, but eventually it became clear. He _really _wanted me expelled, which means he's either got an agenda of his own, or he's working with Lucius. Now, he's not on Harry's list, meaning he was introduced too late to be a new, independent party. That means he was working on behalf of Lucius—but, fortunately, the whole Ministry's probably not in on it, or there would be all sorts of signs: wrongful imprisonment of sympathetic characters, horrific beings of death and fear in their employ, mysterious rooms in their basement full of gateways to evil dimensions, disagreements with Dumbledore, that kind of thing. Also, probably spikes on the Ministry roof—hey, Ron, your dad works there; has he ever mentioned spikes on the Ministry roof?"

"Nope," Ron said. "He says the desk corners are pretty pointy, mind."

"Hmmm. I don't think that's quite enough. So I'm putting them down for blatant corruption and incompetence rather than outright Evilness. Incidentally, this is probably why obviously Evil wizards like Snape and, frankly, the parents of the entire Slytherin house are so rarely raided by Aurors. Which brings me back to Snape: he is clearly trying to get the Stone for Lucius, who will present it to You-Know-Who in return for a position of power in the new world order. But his well-laid plans were foiled by you three and Quirrell. So," Milo paused to catch his breath, "we need to act, _fast_, before he can recover. The Friday Quidditch match with Slytherin is the perfect opportunity."

o—o

"I've got it all planned out," Malfoy said confidently. "I'll ask Father to anonymously donate a team's set of Nimbus Two Thousands to Slytherin, _but_ they'll all have the names filed off and we'll leak to the _Daily Prophet_ that the Slytherin team is testing a new Firebolt design."

"But," said Crabbe, "I thought you just said they'd be Nimbus Two—"

"Yes, _yes_, but they're _in disguise_. So it'll be a big thing, because everyone wants to see Firebolt's answer to the Two Thousand, so the _Prophet_ and _Which Broomstick_ and all of them will have people at the game to see how well it does. And here," Malfoy said modestly, "is where it gets _really_ clever. Milo will have _no choice_ but to try and rig the game so Gryffindor loses, or else his secret master, Firebolt, will look bad."

Goyle frowned.

"But, I thought he was friends with—"

"But, I thought we _want_ Firebolt to look—"

"Oh, he cares about as much about _Potter_ as I care about you two oafs!" Malfoy said angrily. "And once we can tell Milo's rigged the game and it's a shoo-in—or, should I say,—_slither-in_ for Slytherin, then we'll have some of our players lose control of their brooms, crash, and blame it all on Firebolt. Slytherin wins the match, _Potter_ never forgives his friend so Milo can't examine the prototype anymore, and Firebolt will be ruined."

Crabbe and Goyle were silent, staring in awe up at their boss.

o—o

"I've got it all planned out," Milo said confidently. "I'll break into Snape's office on Friday right before the game and steal some Veritaserum. While Harry is dazzling the school with his flying prowess, Hermione, Ron and I will sneak some into Draco's water. Then we kidnap him, tie him to a tree in the Forbidden Forest and beat him savagely until he tells us everything. We can bury his body where the Acromantulas will find him, then go back and watch the rest of the match."

Harry spat out the water he was drinking.

"We could be sent to _prison_ for that," he exclaimed.

"Or worse," Hermione said, her face pale. "_Expelled_."

"Might be worth it, though," Ron said with a dreamy expression on his face.

"Fine, fine," Milo said. "Veritaserum is totally tasteless—rather like that Umbridge woman, actually. Malfoy will never know he's been drugged, and we can just ask him in the hall what his evil scheme is and he'll spill the beans without ever knowing why. We can deal with Malfoy later when it's more convenient."

"Let me get this straight," said Ron. "You are going to _break into_ Snape's office."

"Yeah."

"Do we know any other Snapes?" Ron asked.

"Not to my knowledge."

"So... you're going to break into _Professor Snape's office_."

"Yeah."

Ron stared at him with a mix of fear and respect.

"You're _mad_, mate."

"There's no other choice," Milo insisted. "It's time we go on the offensive; we can't just keep waiting here for the next 'Troll' or giant spider or whatever. I mean, what's next, _dragons_?"

"Don't be ridiculous," said Hermione sharply. "_Nobody_ would dare try and bring a _dragon_ into Hogwarts, not while Dumbledore's here."

"Yeah, Dumbledore'd go nuts," Ron agreed.

"So," Milo pressed, "are we all in?"

"Yeah," said Ron. "Anything to get one over Malfoy."

"I don't see that there's much I can do," said Harry, "seeing as how I'll be playing Quidditch. But... yeah, I'm in."

Everyone turned to look at Hermione, who remained silent, looking troubled.

"We _did_ have a deal," Ron said. "Remember? Milo found proof that Snape's evil, though I think his treatment of Harry should have made _that_ clear enough."

"Oh, _fine_," she eventually snapped. "But _only_ because you lot are _hopeless_ without me."

o—o

Snape lay back in his worn leather office chair, thinking in silence. He couldn't imagine how the Headmaster managed to get anything done surrounded by those accursed ticking silver machines.

Quirinus Quirrell was trying to get the Stone. That much was obvious. The nervous Professor's sudden change in personality was highly suspicious, but the Headmaster refused to listen to Snape's warnings. Dumbledore, Snape decided, could be far too trusting for his own good. Snape would have to take matters into his own hands.

_But... what of the boy? What's Milo's role in all of this? _If Snape had thought Quirrell seemed attached to the boy earlier, Hallowe'en had confirmed that. Quirrell had tried to get Milo out of detention with Snape...

Snape frowned.

That wasn't all he'd been trying to do. Milo had been helping the Defence Professor with the Troll, so...

Snape blinked.

Milo was helping Quirrell steal the Stone. _That must be why Malfoy wanted him thrown out of Hogwarts,_ realized Snape.

_So. Lucius knows about the Stone._

Snape ran his hands through his greasy hair. He had a fine line to walk: he had to protect Potter without anyone realizing it, protect the Stone, help Lucius have Milo expelled to maintain his cover with the Death Eaters, and, now, _also_ keep Lucius from getting his hands on the Stone—without Lucius realizing he was trying to do so. It was only a matter of time before Lucius commanded him to steal Flamel's Stone.

Snape's next move, obviously, was to discover everything he could about Quirrell. For whom was he working? What, exactly, was his relationship with Milo? What _really_ happened to him over the summer?

Unfortunately, it wasn't as if Snape could just _ask _him these questions—and if Quirrell was ready to play the game at this level, he'd be too clever to let anything slip accidentally. Even dosing him with Veritaserum would be unlikely to succeed. Snape, for one, always carried the antidote in a small flask on his person and drank it whenever he began feeling particularly honest (a rare enough feeling to be immediately suspicious); there was no reason to believe Quirrell did not do so as well.

Fortunately, Snape had a plan. There were potions other than Veritaserum for learning what others wanted kept secret. It took a month to brew, but was useful enough that Snape always kept some on hand.

_All I have to do now,_ he thought to himself, _is get the boy alone._

Snape smiled. There was no trace of humour whatsoever in it.


	15. Chapter 15: Quidditch

Author's Notes: To my surprise, my writing is actually _ahead_ of schedule and I'm already putting the finishing touches on chapter 16. I've found that I write faster (and better) when I'm under pressure, so tomorrow (Sunday the 11th), I'll be posting a bonus chapter.

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

Milo waited for Friday to roll around with ever-increasing anxiety and anticipation. His time was entirely taken up with classes, spell research (Milo decided to start researching _Benign Transposition_, a handy 1st-level spell that swaps the positions of a pair of willing creatures), and magic item crafting. The latter was proving increasingly frustrating: one of the oft-forgotten requirements in creating a magic item was that, during the creation process the crafter or an assistant has to cast whichever spell the magic item most closely replicates. Normally, this is no problem at all—for a small charge, any item crafter could hire a high-level Cleric or Wizard to cast the spell for them. Milo, obviously not having this advantage, was severely limited in his choices of items to craft—and, worse, most of them produced effects he could already manage much less expensively by just casting a spell.

Despite the severe restrictions, the Milo that entered McGonagall's office on Tuesday was wearing a pair of sleek midnight-blue gloves with tiny yellow stars on the knuckles. Twice a day, Milo's new Arcanist's Gloves could add a significant amount of extra kick (+2 Caster Levels' worth of kick, to be precise) to his low-level spells.

To McGonagall's increasing frustration, Milo showed no noticeable improvement in his Transfiguration abilities, even under her expert tutelage.

"You have _some _sort of learning block," McGonagall had explained. "We just need to figure out how to work _around_ it. If you can pull off even _one _successful Transfiguration, I'm sure you will have no trouble at all with further ones."

She'd decided to try trial-and-error. Since Transfiguration was largely performed in the mind rather than with the wand, she'd explained, it only followed that Milo had to try _thinking_ differently, and the easiest way to do this was to change environmental factors more-or-less at random.

She made Milo try to Transfigure outdoors, indoors, while balanced on one foot, while blindfolded, while hanging upside-down, while inhaling burning incense, with his wand in his left hand instead of his right, with his wand held in his feet, with his wand held in both hands, with her wand, with no wand at all, while under water, and while floating in the air—and every possible combination of the above.

"Maybe," she said thoughtfully, "if you're blindfolded and slowly turning counter-clockwise while in the presence of a horned toad and the room is smelling of lavender—"

"Professor," Milo interrupted. "I don't mean to be rude, but... doesn't this strike you as a bit ridiculous?"

"Of course!" McGonagall said, and for a moment Milo thought she'd agreed with him. "Laughter! Maybe you'll be able to Transfigure while _laughing_. Tell me, Mister Amastacia-Liadon" (Milo rolled his eyes. He _hated_ being called by his last name) "tell me, how many centaurs does it take to light up a wand?"

Milo sighed.

"I don't know," he said obligingly. "How many?"

"None," McGonagall said with the tone of someone saying something clever, "for Mars is unusually bright tonight."

o—o—o—o

When the other Gryffindors returned from their communal detention, they found Milo sitting in the Common Room stitching up his fifth-hand robes.

"Still working on that?" Ron asked, interested. "They already fit better than mine do—mind, mine were Charlie's originally."

Hermione stared at the thread Milo was using with interest.

"Is that—is that _unicorn hair_?" she gasped.

"Yeah, wand-grade." Milo said. "I was going to use silk, but it wasn't expensive enough."

"_Wasn't expensive—_" Ron said, his face going red. He paused to get control of himself with obvious effort. "You're just as bad as Malfoy, you are."

"No, no," Milo said, aghast. "It's just that, for my magic, I need to use magical components that cost a certain amount. And," Milo said with a grin, "when I'm done, these robes could fit Hagrid."

"_How much unicorn hair—_"

"Magic items resize to fit their wearers," Milo explained patiently. "_Everyone_ knows that, Ron."

"Thought we weren't going to do that anymore," said Harry.

"Couldn't help myself. Everyone ready for tomorrow?" Milo asked, setting aside his under-construction Robe of Arcane Might. It would take another twenty days, but when he was done, Milo would be a force to be reckoned with. Or not to be reckoned with, Milo could never remember how that saying went.

"Yeah," Harry said.

"'Course," Ron added.

"Well—if you insist," Hermione said, although Milo guessed that her reluctance wasn't entirely genuine.

"Excellent. Let's begin, then."

o—o—o—o

Milo waited until he could hear the thunder from the Quidditch pitch outside to begin his heist.

"_Invisibility_," he muttered and withdrew his eleven-foot pole, looking appraisingly at Snape's office door.

With a deep breath to steady his nerves, he turned the doorknob with _Mage Hand_ and gave the door a firm push with the wooden pole.

Nothing exploded. Milo wiped sweat from his brow. _Really, this is what Rogues are for_, he thought sourly. Milo stepped cautiously through the apparently un-trapped doorway and entered Snape's office. He wanted to spend as little time in here as possible.

"_Spontaneous Search_," he cast. Milo located the Veritaserum instantly in Snape's cupboard. It was in a small cauldron next to one containing a thick, bubbling orange potion Milo wasn't familiar with.

Milo reached into his belt and grabbed a small ceramic flask, filled it with the truth potion, and gave it to Mordy, who was also invisible.

"Run this over to Hermione," he whispered. "I'll be right—"

Milo started as the office door slammed shut. He hadn't seen anyone enter, but there was no reason it couldn't have been someone invisible...

"_See Invisibility_," he cast as quietly as he could, though the spell didn't turn up anything.

He exhaled. It must have been the wind...

...there couldn't possibly be any wind in the dungeons, could there?

_So, maybe I should use _Detect Thoughts? While he debated spending another 2nd-level spell slot on what might be nothing, Milo suddenly felt himself being yanked upwards into the air.

"Gah!" Milo shouted reflexively as he dangled by his ankles.

To Milo's horror, the air near the door seemed to run like wet paint towards the ground, revealing a very smug-looking Professor Snape, wand brandished a sword.

Unfortunately for our hero, the Disillusionment Charm only makes the target very, very difficult to see by changing their colour to resemble the background—rather like a chameleon—rather than being actually invisible. As such, _See Invisibility_—which only revealed _invisible_ creatures and objects, was ineffective.

_I'm still invisible,_ Milo reminded himself. _Maybe this dangly spell affects a wide area and he doesn't actually know where I am..._

"_Finite Incantatem_," Snape muttered, but nothing seemed to happen. "_Accio Invisibility Cloak."_ Milo held his breath. Snape frowned, staring at his wand as if it must be broken. With a shrug, he cast "_Accio Flour_."

A heavy burlap sack flew from one of Snape's many supply cupboards and into Snape's hand.

Milo panicked. Flour was, in addition to closed doors, an infamous bane of invisible characters everywhere—it was much like a Cleric's _Glitterdust_.

"_Ventus_," Snape said with a sneer, and the flour in his hand was blasted around the classroom.

Milo looked up at himself: he was completely covered in the white powder, which gave away his position completely. He sighed.

"Look, I—" Milo began.

"_Stupefy,_" Snape cast, and with a red flash everything went black.

o—o—o—o

Quirrell sat by himself watching the Quidditch match without much enthusiasm. Despite the crowd, all of the seats nearby him were strangely empty—likely because of the strong scent of garlic his turban emanated.

"Slytherin in possession _again_," Lee Thomas announced miserably to the audience. "Those Firebolts must be something else entirely." Lee sighed audibly. "Oh, and guess what? They scored. _Again_. That puts the score at 140-30 for Slytherin, although, might I remind you that all three of Gryffindor's _amazing_ goals were made by Angelina Johnson, the lovely and talented—and, might I say, _beautiful—_"

"No, you may _not_," interrupted McGonagall.

"Sorry Professor. Anyways, oh, Slytherin's got the Quaffle _again_..."

To Quirrell's great surprise, Milo came and sat down next to him.

"Sh-sh-shouldnt you b-b-be with your friends?" Quirrell stammered.

Milo simply shrugged.

"I-I suppose you c-c-came to t-t-talk about v-v-v-vampires again?"

Milo stared up at him and frowned.

"Yeah," he said. "Remind me again where we left off?"

Quirrell eyed his student suspiciously.

"You w-w-were t-t-telling me how you b-b-believed that H-H-He-Who-M-M-Must-N-N-Not-B-B-B-Be-N-N-N-Named" (Quirrell resolved to say "Y-Y-You-Kn-Kn-Know-Who" from there on out, if only to save time) "had s-s-servants r-r-rounding up v-v-vampires."

Milo stared at him with an unusual expression.

"Did I, now?" he said softly. "And, have you thought at all about it? What do _you_ think... Professor?"

Quirrell paused. What _did_ he think? The truth of what he believed was something he tried not to think about, lest his master discover how odd he thought it that becoming a vampire hadn't been his first plan...

"The D-D-Dark L-L-Lord is widely known to b-b-believe strongly in b-b-blood purity," Quirrell explained. "I d-d-don't b-b-believe he would b-be w-w-willing to b-b-become a v-vampire."

Milo choked somewhat, but recovered quickly. _Something is not right here_, Quirrell thought. _I have to press him for information... can he really bring back the dead?_

"M-m-more importantly," Quirrell stammered, "what y-y-you said earlier—is it t-true?"

Milo hesitated for a fraction of a second before speaking.

"Yes, of course."

"But—h-how?"

In the background, ignored by both of them, Slytherin scored again.

Milo paused.

"In the same way that all wonders are achieved," he said. "I think you know how."

Quirrell frowned.

"N-no, I r-r-really don't."

Milo looked vaguely disappointed.

"Where's Snape?" Milo asked suddenly. "I wonder what he might be up to while the students are all here, watching the game?"

Quirrell himself had just been wondering the selfsame question.

"Y-you think h-h-he's trying to g-g-get the Stone again?" Quirrell asked.

"Maybe. What are we going to do about it?"

To Quirrell's surprise, a small rat climbed up his leg without warning. Quirrell reached for his wand to hex it, but noticed the rat was holding a tiny roll of parchment between its teeth.

Unfurling it, Quirrell read:

_Professor Quirrel,  
Snape has me locked in his office. He hexed me and fled, I'm almost completely immobilized. You're the only professor who knows what he's up to. Help!  
_—_Milo_

The writing was messy and hasty, and the ink blotches ran in the wrong direction, almost as if it had been written upside-down.

"Oh," Quirrell smiled darkly. "I don't think you'll be needing to worry about Severus Snape for much longer."

Without another word, Quirrell stood up and strode out of the stands, his purple robes trailing behind him.

"Oh-oh OH!" Lee shouted, "POTTER'S SEEN THE SNITCH! HE'S GOING AFTER IT AND—"

Dozens of students nearby saw it happen. His face mottled with rage and frustration, Milo, to the horror of all watching, drew his wand and, pointing it at Harry Potter, clearly cast the Hurling Hex. Ignoring the shocked looks of horror on the bystanders' faces, Milo left the stadium.

o—o

Harry was shocked to find that his beloved Nimbus was, suddenly, actively attempting to throw him off.

"—what's going on?" Lee asked in alarm. "Potter seems to be having some difficulty with his broomstick. We were _so close!_"

"That's the signal, boys!" Flint, the Slytherin captain, shouted to his players.

Pucey, a Slytherin Chaser, abruptly screamed and went careening off into the stands.

The Nimbus gave another lurch, and Harry slipped off of it. For a moment he felt like this was the end, but he miraculously managed to catch hold of the shaft with his left hand.

Harry risked a glance at the rest of the match. The Slytherin team was in absolute disarray, flying chaotically and apparently at random. A second Chaser and a Beater joined Pucey on the ground as they abandoned their apparently uncontrollable broomsticks. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw a tiny flicker of gold.

_No..._ he thought. _Could it be?_

o—o

"Oi, _Malfoy_," Ron said with a sneer. "Think fast!"

Before he finished speaking, Ron chucked a Veritaserum-laced water balloon at Malfoy's face. That had been Hermione's idea: if all it took was a drop of the potion, then surely he'd swallow at _least_ that much by accident, right? Not to mention how much got into his eyes. _That rat always delivers_, Ron thought to himself. _Unlike Scabbers_.

"Agh—_what_—WEASLEY!" Malfoy spluttered, water pouring all down his front. The crowd of students around him were too focussed on the game to pay much attention to yet _another_ Malfoy vs. Weasley row.

"So, Malfoy, what are you up to?" Ron asked casually.

"Trying to decide what to hex you with!" Malfoy said, then frowned.

"I meant, what's your evil plan?" Ron clarified.

"It's none of your business that I'm trying to get the Slytherin team to stop pretending their fake Firebolts, which are really Nimbus Two Thousands in disguise, are going haywire because its _only_ _Potter_ that's been hexed and they're going to get flattened!" Malfoy clutched his hands over his mouth, as if to stop it from speaking. He glanced around frantically—where were Crabbe and Goyle?

"And why are the Slytherins riding fake Firebolts?" Ron asked, intrigued.

o—o

Harry was jostled back to his senses as his Nimbus gave another kick and his hand slipped about two feet down the shaft towards the end. In addition to rocking wildly back and forth, the Nimbus was still flying forwards at the speed it had been when Harry had last had control over it.

The Snitch, if that's what it was, was on the other side of the pitch. Harry swung his legs sideways, angling the broomstick, still bucking chaotically, around in a wide arc.

He could see the snitch, buzzing above the stands. Nobody else seemed to notice it, they were too fixated on the havoc that Harry's and the Slytherin's broomsticks were wreaking. Harry was just a few yards away from his target when the broomstick gave a particularly powerful kick and he lost his grip entirely—literally and figuratively.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" he screamed, flying through the air in a high arc towards where the Gryffindors were sitting. His Nimbus, meanwhile, continued flying over the audience and into the distance like a speeding bullet.

A red-and-gold sea began to part in front of him as Gryffindors fled. Harry saw a tiny flicker of silver ahead of him and desperately reached forwards. It was just over a foot away... now just inches...

Harry's gloved hand clasped around something round and heavy when everything went dark.

The last thing he remembered was Neville's horrified face.

o—o

The door to Snape's office re-opened and Mordy, now visible, scurried through. Milo was still hanging upside-down, which was making him dizzy and likely gave him all kinds of circumstance penalties.

Milo glanced up from his furry friend and saw Quirrell's trademark purple robes and turban.

"Hey," Milo said. "Did you get my note?"

"I-i-indeed," he stammered. "_Liberacorpus_," he muttered, and Milo slammed into the ground.

"Well, that was embarrassing," Milo said. "Writing with _Mage Hand_ is a really weird experience, I'm surprised you could even _read_ that."

"Show m-m-me your w-wand," Quirrell commanded. Milo stared at him blankly for a moment before remembering he even had one.

"What, this old thing? Sure, it's all yours." Milo pulled his chestnut wand from his pocket and tossed it to the professor. Quirrell caught it with surprisingly quick reflexes, and examined it closely.

"A-as your Defence Professor," Quirrell said absently, "I w-w-would advise against s-s-surrendering your w-wand in the f-future." Milo snorted.

"What am I going to do, poke you with it?" he asked with a laugh, standing up from the floor. At some point while he was stunned, Snape had cleaned all traces of flour from the office.

"_Priori Incantato_," Quirrell said under his breath. If he was surprised when nothing happened, it didn't register on his face.

Apparently satisfied, Quirrell handed Milo back his stick. _Weird,_ Milo thought. _Wonder what that was all about?_

"Erm," Milo said. "I don't suppose we can leave now? Before he comes back?"

Quirrell gave Milo a quick appraising look.

"H-have you ever h-heard of Polyjuice P-Potion?" he asked.

"Uh," Milo said. "Maybe? It was in something I'd read in the Library." He frowned, and, for once, succeeded on a skill check. "It lets you disguise yourself as someone else, right?"

"C-correct," Quirrell said. "W-would it s-surprise you that s-someone is w-walking around right now l-looking like y-you?"

"Well, that can't be good," said Milo, somewhat irritated that they weren't leaving yet. "I wonder what Snape's up to?"

"H-he tried to f-find out how I was d-d-defending the Stone," Quirrell said. "After that, I d-don't know. W-walk with me," Quirrell commanded.

Milo shrugged and followed. Mordy, whose little rat legs couldn't keep up, sat on his shoulder.

"I n-notice your m-mind jumped straight to the P-Potions Master," Quirrell said. "W-why?"

"He's working for Lucius Malfoy," said Milo. "Who was a Death Eater, and therefore working for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named." As Milo filled Quirrell in on his theory about Draco, Snape, and Lucius, they approached Quirrell's office. The simple wooden door opened with a wave of Quirrell's hand.

"H-how do you know that L-Lucius is still loyal to the D-Dark L-Lord?" Quirrell asked. "Hasn't h-he told the w-w-world that he was '_b-bewitched_,'" Quirrell said the last with a sneer, sitting down behind his desk.

"Well, for one, that's obviously a lie. Everything about the Malfoys has _evil_ written all over it. But also, when I was summoned here, I woke up in the Malfoy manor surrounded by dark wizards in masks that sound an awful lot like the old Death Eater getups."

"S-so," Quirrell mused softly. "They're still active, even w-without their m-master..."

"Oh," Milo added as an afterthought. "While I'm here, want me to protect your office against vampires?"

"W-what?" Quirrell asked. He seemed totally thrown by the question. "Why?"

"To keep Vampiremort from murdering you in your sleep when he fails to get the Stone," Milo said. It took effort not to add '_duh._'

"Wh-what exactly c-can you do against v-v-vampires? Y-you're only eleven," Quirrell said, taking a sip from a glass of water that he created with a wave of his wand.

"Ah," Milo countered. "I might be twelve, now—I don't know when my birthday is."

"Q-quite besides the p-point," Quirrell said.

"It's easy, really," Milo said. "I just carve a few holy symbols onto the doors, windows, vents, and, ideally, every brick of the wall. You've already got the garlic covered—I don't suppose you can get Holy Water in this universe? Eh, nevermind, it's suboptimal anyways. 'Course, the vamp can just Dominate you with a look—you guys have anything like _Protection from Evil_?"

"W-what is this 'Protection F-From E-E-Evil?'" Quirrell asked.

"Handy little spell. Makes it hard for Evil creatures to touch you—they can't at all if they're summoned—and makes you totally immune from all forms of mental control, whether the originator is Evil or not."

Quirrell dropped his glass, which shattered on the hard stone ground.

"Permanently?" Quirrell asked, his expression carefully neutral.

"Nah, just for a few minutes. Want me to _Prestidigitate_ that?" he asked, pointing at the shards of glass.

Quirrell shook his head, carefully waved his wand, and the glass shards were gone. He looked and moved as if every part of him were focussing on the simple cleaning spell.

"I think," Quirrell said slowly and deliberately, "that it would be best, if we are to work together, if you explain to me just how your magic works."

Milo shrugged.

"It's simple enough. There are ten levels of spells, from 0th to 9th. There are thousands of spells out there that wizards have invented (and a few dozen by Sorcerers), but I can only cast ones that I've written into my spellbook. Every morning, I can prepare a fixed list of spells from my book, and I can cast those—and _only_ those—at any point that I want. How many spells, and of what level, is determined by my Wizard level—not to be confused with spell level. I'm a level five Wizard," Milo said proudly, "so I can cast up to 3rd-level spells. At every second Wizard level, I can cast a higher level of spell."

"So, you can increase in level? How?" Again, Quirrell seemed to be spending a large amount of effort concentrating on his words. _Maybe it's a trick to avoid stuttering?_ Milo thought.

"There are a few ways, but the main one is combat. Defeating monsters and such gives me Experience Points, when I have enough of those I go up a level."

"You said you could cast up to 3rd-level spells. Could you give me an example?"

"Sure... _Summon Hippogriff._"

Milo decided, in hindsight, that summoning the largest possible creature that he could manage into Quirrell's compact little office may not have been the best idea.

The Hippogriff, a massive, aggressive Magical Beast that looked like the front of a giant eagle on the body of a horse, let out a roar that knocked the stunned Quirrell out of his chair.

"Uh," he said. "Sorry about that." With a deliberately casual wave of his hand, Milo dismissed the voracious omnivore before it developed a taste for human flesh.

"So, you gain power _directly_ by being involved in combat? By defeating your foes?"

"Yup."

"Does the strength of the foe matter?"

"Oh, yeah. The harder the challenge, the more XP I get—assuming, of course, that I survive."

"Indeed."

"So, about the vampires and _Protection from Evil_—" Milo began.

"It is of no matter. I already told you that I don't..." Quirrell paused. "I mean, as I was telling your doppelganger, I don't believe the Dark Lord will become a vampire; he has always believed strongly in blood purity" he said, smoothly changing the topic.

"That's why the villains always lose," Milo said. "Blinded by their own prejudices and killing their own minions. If _I_ had minions," Milo said with a slightly dreamy expression, "I'd treat them _right_. Well, I mean, I'd work them like slaves, I wouldn't pay them, and I'd feed them only enough to keep them from starving to death—it's just _efficient_—but _aside _from that, I'd treat them right. Oh, and if I can find some way to keep them working without needing sleep, I'd use that, of course, but _honestly_."

"Do you have any theories," Quirrell said carefully, cutting off Milo's rambling speech, "as to why Lucius brought you here?"

Milo frowned.

"I'd just sort of assumed it was an accident," he said. "I mean, whatever they were doing, it didn't look like they expected an eleven year-old to appear on their dining room table in the middle of it."

"And yet, you yourself admitted that you could, one day, have the power to bring back their lord."

"I don't follow," Milo confessed.

"You can bring back the dead," Quirrell said. "That makes you, Milo, a prize greater than any Philosopher's Stone."

Before Milo could respond, there was a brisk rap on the door.

"E-enter," Quirrell said, looking frustrated, his concentration evidently broken.

The door opened to reveal a very, _very_ angry looking Professor McGonagall.

"_You_," she said, pointing at Milo. "Come with me." Her tone brooked no dissent.

o—o—o—o

"Blimey," said Fred as Harry was carried out of the stands.

"Just once, we're going to be able to throw a party on a Friday—" said George.

"—and the star of the show won't be in the hospital wing—"

"—and on that day, the house-elves will overthrow their masters, and become lords of the universe."


	16. Chapter 16: Be Good For Goodness' Sake

Author's Notes: Here's your Sunday bonus chapter, as promised—but _wait_, there's more! I don't know what's wrong with me, but I'm on a _roll_ lately. I wrote an _entire chapter _yesterday, and it wasn't this one. I'll put the finishing touches on it today, and tomorrow, you, my faithful readers, get Bonus Chapter 2: Revenge of the this Time it's Personal Strikes Back. Also, I decided to rename the Hallowe'en chapters from the rather boring Part 1, 2, 3, and 4 to be Sidequests, Hallowe'en, Odds of Survival, and The Troll and the Dementor, respectively.

So: Chapter Seventeen will go up tomorrow, and Chapter Eighteen will go up on Saturday, as usual. (Who knows, maybe Nineteen will be on Sunday?)

Anyways, on with the story! I hope nobody is deterred by the flood of chapters! And if you like it, review it!

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

"_Sit,_" McGonagall commanded. Milo was in the hard leather chair in her office before she'd finished saying the one-syllable word. "Your behaviour today was cowardly, treacherous, sickening, and unbecoming of a Hogwarts student, much less a member of my house. I have half a mind to expel you this very minute. _What_ do you have to say for yourself?"

"Well," said Milo, "in my defence, he sort of had it coming. I mean, _look_ at him."

"You will explain to me, right now, clearly and succinctly, how you could _possibly_ think that such a poor, sweet, innocent boy who has already suffered _so much_ had—what was it you said? Oh yes, how he _had it coming_. If I find your explanation is in _any way_ unsatisfactory, you'll be out of here faster than you can say _Mimbulus Mimbletonia_."

"He's _obviously_ working for You-Know-Who."

McGonagall sat down heavily in her office chair, stammering and apparently at a complete loss for words.

"Of all the ridiculous—_impossible—_why, he would be the _last_ person to ever—in any case, You-Know-Who's long gone—I was a friend of his parents, I won't listen to such unfounded accusations!"

"Oh, so you're in his father's pocket as well?" Milo asked, disappointed. "Seems like the whole wizarding world is convinced he's such a great guy when he's really, clearly, _obviously _evil. It's like you're all blind, I swear!"

"_Evil?_ A tad arrogant, when he was younger, and I suppose he had an unfortunate and blatant disregard for any rules he found inconvenient, but _never_ evil. There are places in this country—and right now, I'm debating if you're sitting in one as we speak—where statements like that would be responded to with challenges to duels."

"I always had you figured as being on _our_ side, Professor. I can see that my trust was misplaced."

"And what, _exactly_, is _your _side, then, boy?" McGonagall asked, her face flushed with anger. Milo was starting to wonder if she hadn't multiclassed into Barbarian for some mysterious reason.

"The good guys, Professor," Milo said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"_How dare you_—"

"If you're of a mind to call Draco Malfoy a _poor sweet, innocent boy_ then," Milo said with a hint of finality, "I think we're through anyways."

McGonagall stared at him as if he had just said the sky was green.

"I—you—_Draco_..." she stopped talking and simply breathed steadily for several moments, evidently trying to calm down. "_Who_ did you think we were _t_alking about?"

"Who did _you_ think we were talking about?"

"Harry James Potter," McGonagall said. "The boy you nearly killed today."

"Oh," Milo said. What was it Quirrell mentioned about the Polyjuice potion? "_That_."

"Yes. _That_."

o—o—o—o

"_There must be a change of plans... my family are still loyal... more than I can say for some..._"

"Y-yes, my l-lord, of c-c-course, my lord, but I have always b-been your most d-devout—"

"_Interesting, isn't it, that, when asked, all my servants profess to be my most devout, my most faithful... paradoxical, it seems..._"

"W-we've had setbacks, I-I'll admit t-t-to that, my l-lord, b-but—"

"_Indeed we have had... setbacks. Perhaps I should turn to Lucius instead.. one of my other _most faithful_ servants..._"

"B-but my l-lord, w-we are weak—f-forgive me, b-but y-y-you know it to b-be true—w-what is to stop him f-from s-simply killing us and c-c-continuing to rule in y-your stead?"

"_Killing _you_, you mean... for _I_ am far beyond the reach of even Lucius Malfoy..._"

"Yes, of c-course, my lord, what I m-meant was that you w-would be as I f-f-found you. S-surely, a s-significant s-s-setback even for one such as—"

"_Yes, yes, I know what you mean... ought to be more concise... takes ages to say anything with your st-st-stutter..._"

"S-so my l-l-lord, w-what shall we d-d-do? C-continue to t-try for the St-Stone or for the b-b-boy?"

"_I see no reason we cannot do both... for if one fails, and knowing you, one _will _fail, we will have the other... simply prudent..._"

"B-but he claims he c-c-cannot cast the spell yet."

"_But his power grows with violence... provide him with violence, Quirrell, violence at all levels..._"

"A-at all levels, m-my lord?"

"_Violence he can overcome, but... violence where he fears for his life... for the lives of others...  
at all times, Quirrell, all times... he must never know safety again... but keep him alive... yes, always  
alive..._"

"It w-w-will take t-time m-m-my lord, a-as with the Acr—"

"_SILENCE. You are _never _to mention that to me again!_"

"I-I'm sorry, my lord, have m-m-mercy... the p-p-p-pain..."

"_Mercy?_"

"Y-yes, my lord, please, my lord, I b-b-beg—"

"_Very well... Am I not merciful, Quirrell? You are granted reprieve from your sufferings... for the moment..._"

"Th-th-thank you, m-my—"

"_Cease... no time to waste on your incomprehensible stammering... we must plan carefully..._"

"My lord, w-what if—"

"_I meant 'we' figuratively... I, of course, shall plan carefully... you shall listen, and you shall act..._"

"Of c-course, my lord."

"_You are their hero, now, are you not? Saved the mudblood from the monster... we must use this..._"

"H-how, my l-l-lord?"

"_This is what you must do..._"

o—o—o—o

"—so you see, it wasn't me at all who cast the hex or whatever it was," Milo explained reasonably, "but, in fact, Professor Snape, polyjuiced to look exactly like me."

"And you seriously expect me to believe this load of tripe?" McGonagall snapped.

"Snape's—"

"_Professor _Snape," McGonagall corrected sharply.

"Right, _Professor_ Snape's had it out for Potter since he first set foot in this castle. Everyone knows it."

"Be that as it may," McGonagall said. Milo was somewhat astonished that she didn't contest the point, "the notion that he would use _Polyjuice_ to facilitate assaulting one of our students is _completely_ out of the question. Now, are you quite ready to tell me the truth, or would you rather I have you thrown out the front gates immediately?"

"_Truth!_ Of course. Professor, dose me with Veritaserum and you'll be able to tell that I'm being completely honest!"

"Regrettably, the use of Veritaserum is strictly controlled by the Ministry," McGonagall said, "and is not used in the investigations of school rule infractions."

"Then, doesn't the fact that I was going to volunteer to take it count towards me?"

"Not if you were already aware of these regulations, Mr. Amastacia-Liadon."

Milo stared at her, fear rising. He couldn't believe he was about to be expelled for something that happened offstage.

"You can't just expel me without any proof!" he protested.

"I have twenty-six eyewitness reports that say you brazenly used the Hurling Hex on Mr. Potter in the middle of a Quidditch match in plain sight!"

"But—but I _didn't!_" Milo was appalled that that was the best argument he could think of.

"You will pack your school trunk in your dormitory, where you will remain until morning when you will be taken to the Ministry to have your wand destroyed—"

"_My wand!_" Milo said with sudden inspiration. "Here, look—" Milo drew his wand from his pocket.

"I don't have time for this foolishness," McGonagall muttered.

"But—_look at it, Professor!_ I had it on me the whole time, what wand did I allegedly use to hex Harry? Was it chestnut, thirteen inches, with dragon heartstring core? No! It can't have been because all wands are unique."

"It only would have been visible for a few seconds," McGonagall said, "nobody reported what wand you used."

Milo's hopes deflated. That was his last hope. He couldn't believe he was going to be thrown out of Hogwarts because a crowd of NPCs failed their Spot checks to see something he wasn't even _there_ for.

"So..." Milo said hesitantly. "What happens now? Where will I go?"

"After the Ministry?" McGonagall said. For an almost imperceptible moment, her gaze seemed to soften. "After your wand has been destroyed, it's quite up to you."

"Very well, Professor. I'll head to my dormitory now." Milo walked back to the familiar sights of the Gryffindor Common Room in a daze.

o—o—o—o

"And then I hit him with a water balloon and said 'Hey, Malfoy, think fast!'" Ron said exuberantly, causing Hermione to snort in a most unladylike fashion. "How'd everything go with Grabbe and Coyle?"

"Oh, it was no trouble at all. I just walked up to them and said, 'oh no, I'm just a poor defenceless Muggleborn girl who misplaced her wand, whatever shall I do?'" Hermione said with a wicked grin. "Took them about five seconds to try and hex me. Anything I did after that was purely self-defence, you understand."

The pair of them were waiting outside Pomfrey's hospital wing for the strict witch to declare Harry fit for visitors.

Eventually, the heavy doors opened.

"Oh," Pomfrey said wearily. "It's you lot again. Well, come in, come in," she ushered the pair into the ward.

"Visitors!" Neville said happily, his nose just poking out between thick bandages. "I _never_ get visitors!"

"Nah, we're here for Harry," said Ron, ignoring a sharp look from Hermione.

"Hey," said Harry. Injuries notwithstanding, he seemed to be in high spirits. "Did you hear? Or see? I caught it! Looks like I'm not rubbish after all!"

"To tell the truth, I only caught the first bit," Ron admitted, looking apologetic. "But that's only because our plan _worked_. Can you believe it? Malfoy told me everything!"

As he happily told Harry about Malfoy's crackpot scheme involving the Firebolts and the Nimbuses, Harry burst out laughing, clutching his sides.

"So when they saw me lose control of my broom," he asked when he could finally breathe, "they thought _Milo_ hexed me?"

"Nutty, isn't it?"

"Where is he, by the way?" Harry asked, looking around.

"Dunno," said Ron. "Good question. Haven't seen him since before the match. You don't... you don't think Snape caught him, do you?"

"Can't have," Neville said. Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned to him, somewhat surprised that he'd spoken. "He was at the Quidditch game."

"What, really?" Ron asked. "He could have helped with Malfoy, then."

"Can't have," Neville said, his face (well, the visible parts anyways) uncharacteristically grim. "He was too busy hexing Harry's broomstick."

"You mean Malfoy was _right?_" Ron asked, alarmed. "Merlin's pants! That _turncoat!_"

"Looks like," Neville said sullenly.

"No," said Harry firmly. "I don't believe it. He was set up."

"I saw it myself! He just stood up, pulled out his wand, and hexed you! Right in plain sight!"

There was a brief silence.

"Did you say wand?" Harry asked.

o—o—o—o

"Password?" asked the Fat Lady.

"Squeak," Milo replied, and the portrait swung open. _Stupid password_, he thought to himself. _The 'ultra-secure' Common Room can be infiltrated by a Fighter in heavy armour after a rainy day._

As soon as Milo entered the Common Room, he wished he still had _Invisibility_ prepared. The sounds of partying cut off immediately when he came into sight, and everyone simply stared at him silently. Milo walked directly to the dorm, and the crowd parted slightly around him—it seemed that nobody wanted to touch him. Milo was surprised at how much their shocked disapproval hurt him—they were only NPCs, after all.

He collapsed onto his four-poster bed, exhausted. He knew he should be thinking of a plan, some clever scheme, to get out of this, but he just felt too tired. He'd been defeated, that was all there was to it.

He was going to be expelled. Lucius had won.

o—o—o—o

"Professor!" Hermione practically shouted, knocking sharply on the office door. There was no reply. "She must be out somewhere!" she moaned.

"Maybe—maybe she's in the staff room?" Ron suggested, "or the Great Hall?"

"Or she's patrolling the corridors," Hermione said, despair growing. "Or visiting another teacher's office. Or overseeing detention. Or she's out of the castle. She could even be—"

Hermione gasped.

"What?" Ron asked, alarmed.

"You don't think she—could it be? She _wouldn't_, would she?"

"One day," Ron said, "you're going to give me a straight answer. And on that day, I'm going to buy a lottery ticket and win a thousand Galleons."

"She might be—"

"And then I'll be selected for Head Boy."

"Ron, listen, she—"

"And named Minister for Magic."

"_Ron_—"

"Then Snape will apologize for being a git and stick his head in a cauldron. Oh, and he'll pull Malfoy in after him. To round it off, the Chudley Cannons will ask me over for tea to give them a few pointers on Quaffle handling. And then I'll go to bed early in my solid gold, king-sized bed _stuffed_ with unicorn's hair in my _floating palace_." Abruptly, Ron realized Hermione had stopped interrupting him.

"Are you quite done?" Hermione asked testily.

"I was going to mention the butterbeer fountains, marble statues, and how it can travel to Jupiter, but that seems somehow unnecessary now."

"I was _going _to say, before you so _rudely_ cut me off, that she might already be at the Ministry!"

Ron stared at her blankly.

"Why would she be at the Ministry?" he asked.

"_Because_," Hermione explained wearily, "when a student is to be expelled, the DMLE and the Improper Use of Magic Office in particular have to be informed."

Ron continued to stare at her without comprehension.

"_So that they can destroy the student's wand_," Hermione said, fighting down the urge to add 'Duh.'

"Blimey," Ron said. "Who do you think is getting the axe?"

Hermione stared at him with genuine surprise on her face.

"Milo, of course! Honestly, is there _anything_ between those ears of yours?"

Ron paled.

"We have to find McGonagall before that happens!" he said.

"Yes, Ron," Hermione said, her voice commendably, under the circumstances, both level and patient. "That's why we're here. Knocking on her office door." Hermione paused for a moment, willing herself not to say it, but even her doughty willpower could break under sufficient strain. "_Duh_."

o—o—o—o

Neville, who for one reason or another had been living in the hospital wing for the past two months (when he was lucky, that is—the rest of the time, he was at St. Mungo's) had a few special concessions from Madam Pomfrey that most short-term patients didn't get. They were little things, like a reading lamp (Neville always had trouble with Lumos), a few extra pillows, the blanket that smelled the least of cats, a bedside table with a pair of drawers for keeping his clothes in, and the cot next to the window.

It was due to this last fact that, on Friday evening, he saw a tall, thin figure striding confidently up to the Hogwarts gates.

"Hey, Harry," Neville said.

"What's up, Nev?" Harry asked sleepily.

"Well, Ron and Hermione went out to find McGonagall, right?"

"Sure."

"And that was four hours ago, right?"

"Was it?" Harry asked. He must have drifted off at some point, he realized.

"Yeah, it was. So they must not have found her."

"Guess not."

"Well, she's right outside."

"She is?" Harry asked, all trace of drowsiness gone. He looked around for Madam Pomfrey, but she seemed to be out somewhere. Well, there was nothing else for it. Agonizingly, he stood up and limped towards the door.

o—o—o—o

"Well, we've searched the staff room, the Common Room, every teacher's office, all known corridors of Hogwarts, Hagrid's Hut, the dungeons, the Great Hall, the lake, the Quidditch Pitch, the astronomy tower, and most of the empty classrooms, but there's been no sign of her," Ron moaned in despair. He and Hermione were standing in the entrance hall trying to decide where to look next.

"Sign of whom?" asked a familiar voice. The pair turned to see Professor McGonagall standing at the entrance, taking off her coat and looking curious.

"Professor!" Hermione said with relief. "We finally found you!"

"Me?" McGonagall asked in surprise. "Is Peeves acting up again?"

"No," Hermione said at the same time that Ron said "Probably."

"Well, than what can I help you with?"

"It's about Milo," Hermione said. "He's innocent!"

McGonagall's face hardened.

"I understand he's your friend, but there were dozens of witnesses. I'm sorry, but I have no choice but to expel him."

"No, Professor, you don't understand. You see—" Hermione froze. She was about to say, 'you see, he was seen using a wand and Milo's magic doesn't need wands,' but she realized that that would just get him expelled for a different reason. She began to realize that maybe, this time, she hadn't thought their plan all the way through. "He wouldn't do something like that," she finished lamely.

"Yeah," said Ron. "I mean, he's a bit of a nutter, mind, but he's Harry's mate. He wouldn't hex him like that."

"I'm sorry," McGonagall said. "But without something a bit more than your gut feelings, the case is open and shut. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a great deal of paperwork to do. Unless one of you has something concrete?"

"I asked him to," said a voice. Hermione turned in surprise to see Harry, wrapped in bandages and casts, leaning weakly against a doorway on the upper level.

"Harry, what—" Hermione asked.

"I asked him to pretend to hex me," Harry said. "We found out that Malfoy had concocted a some nutty plan to rig the Quidditch match and make Firebolt look bad, and he thought for some reason that Milo would hex me to protect the reputation of the broomstick company. Can't imagine why. So I asked Milo to pretend to go along with it, and faked the whole thing. Malfoy thought his plan had worked, and his team pretended to lose control of their brooms. It was all faked. Milo never _really_ hexed me."

McGonagall, Ron, and Hermione stared at him, shock evident on their faces.

McGonagall's mouth moved a few times, as if she were about to speak, but couldn't quite find the words. Harry, Ron, and Hermione stared at her in hopeful silence. Eventually, she rallied somewhat.

"Of all the—not even _Fred and George_ would have—okay, maybe Fred and George—but... _how_ did you discover this alleged plan?"

"Oh," said Ron, "that was me. He just bragged to me about it, right to my face, during... er, just before the match. Can't imagine why."

"He _told_ you?" McGonagall said. "But _why_... I spoke to Milo earlier, he came up with some preposterous tale about Professor Snape and Polyjuice... why didn't he just tell me the truth?"

"Because he's only eleven and was scared?" Hermione suggested hopefully.

McGonagall sighed.

"Well, I'll have to owl the Ministry immediately and tell them to cancel the hearing... of all the crackpot schemes, this one has to take the cake."

"So..." Hermione said, hope rising on her face like the sun, "so he's cleared? He won't be expelled?"

"No," McGonagall said, "but this was, nonetheless, an underhanded move unworthy of our House. And Mister Potter, I thought better of you. Twenty points from Gryffindor from you and Milo _each_, and detention every Saturday for the rest of November. And December. At _least_. And you two—" McGonagall turned to Ron and Hermione "—were you involved in this as well?"

"No, not involved in any way whatsoever, Ma'am." Ron said smoothly, his years of living in the same house as the twins paying off.

"Us? Involved? Hah. He. Hahaha. Nope," Hermione said nervously. McGonagall eyed them suspiciously, but instead of giving them detention, just turned and walked up the stairs to her office, muttering to herself about needing a Firewhiskey.

There were a few blessed seconds of relief for the three friends as they savoured their triumph. It was interrupted, however, by a fell shriek that could have raised the dead (in a manner of speaking, it did—the ghost of Nearly Headless Nick, hovering nearby, was so startled that he (nearly) lost his head).

"_What are you doing out of bed, young man?_" came the terrible voice of a wrathful Madam Pomfrey. Harry turned around in terror, while Hermione and Ron simply fled.

o—o—o—o

When word got around that Milo's surprise attack on the Boy-Who-Lived was not, as had been generally believed, treachery most foul, but rather a component in a circuitous gambit to sabotage the Slytherin Quidditch team and guarantee a Gryffindor win, there was much shuffling of feet and making of sheepish glances in the Gryffindor Common Room.

"So, really, when it comes down to it, we're sorry, mate," said an NPC (Seamus Finnigan, not that Milo knew or particularly cared).

"Why the sudden reversal of opinion?" Milo asked.

"Well, you see, Hermione came into the Common Room about an hour ago," said Fred.

"—And she stood up on the table, right in the centre of the room—"continued George.

"It was horrible," said another NPC (Dean Thomas). "like a banshee of wrath..."

"—And she started speaking, and the walls shook—"

"—Only, see, nobody saw her cast Sonorus, so it was all her—"

"—And she calmly told us about judging people before fully understanding the situation—"

"—Oh, yes, definitely calm. Level-headed, she was. The windows shattered of their own accord—"

"—And, if she asks, we didn't even _hint_ otherwise—"

"—And thus, we were enlightened to the errors of our ways," finished George.

"Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't hear it, mate," said Dean. Milo noticed that they were calling him 'mate' a lot.

"Hermione must have put up some kinda Charm to keep teachers in the halls from storming in to see what all the screaming was about," Milo shrugged. "She's careful like that." In truth, he'd heard every word, but wanted to hear them explain it anyways. It was more fun that way.

"I thought you were innocent the whole time," said Hannah.

"Isn't this the boys' dorm?" asked Dean. Hannah coloured slightly.

"So," Seamus said, somewhat nervously. "Want to come down and have some butterbeer? There's not much left, but it's really good. How Fred and George get this stuff, I'll never know."

"And we'll never tell," Fred winked.

"Yeah," said Milo. "I think I'd like that."

The whole room gave a collective sigh of relief.

"So," he said on the way down the stairs into the Common Room, "what's your excuse going to be next week?"

"Sorry, mate?" asked George.

"For a party. Seems like a weekly tradition 'round here."

"It isn't," said Fred slowly.

"But it _should_ be," said George, whose forehead wrinkled in thought for a moment. "We'll think of something," he said finally. "Trust us."

"And drink this," Fred said, pushing a heavy tankard of butterbeer into Milo's hands. Milo sipped it cautiously, and suddenly grinned. The stuff wasn't ale (the preferred method of hydration for adventurers everywhere), but it was pretty fantastic. And before you cry, "But he's only eleven! He's far too young for ale!" you should be advised that there are, in fact, no rules for intoxication from alcohol anywhere to be found. It can therefore be concluded, via strict interpretation of the holy Rules-As-Written, that one can drink gallons of tequila like water.

"Shouldn't we have waited for Harry to get out of the hospital?" Milo asked suddenly.

"That's what we thought," said Fred (maybe), "but he gave us permission to celebrate without him in future events such as this, so long as we save him some of the provender."

"Speaking of which, hands off the last of the Every Flavoured Beans, you greedy git!" George said, glaring at Ron.

The Quidditch victory party concluded a little after midnight when a sleepy McGonagall made them all go to bed.

o—o—o—o

Despite Fred and George's promise, the next few weeks were surprisingly uneventful (not that that prevented them from finding excuses for celebration, as their "Happy November the 22nd Day!" festivities attested to). Milo's time was taken up by almost constant detentions (both for McGonagall and Snape, now) and lessons with McGonagall, but he found enough time in to research _Benign Transposition_, _Disguise Self_, _Nerveskitter_, and_ Resist Energy_. If Snape had any reaction to his latest plot to expel Milo, it went unnoticed among his usual horribleness. Quirrell started a unit on vampires, which sent Hermione into a panic because it wasn't on the original reading list.

It was on a cold December afternoon when Milo returned to the Common Room to find a small crowd gathered around the bulletin board.

"What's going on?" Milo asked.

"It's Quirrell," said Lee. Fear gripped Milo's heart. Had Snape finally gotten the better of the enigmatic Defence Professor?

"What happened to him?"

"Nothin'," said Lee. "Only he's started a Duelling Club."

The bulletin had a large parchment poster pinned to it, reading SUNDAY DUELLING CLUB SIGN-UP on it, with a number of lines for people to write their names in. The lines were already all taken, and several people had scrawled their names haphazardly in the margins.

Milo grinned. Sundays were his remaining free day, so there was nothing to stop him from attending Quirrell's club and stomping some of the local 'wizards' for fun and XP. What were they going to do, shoot sparks at him?

The poster said the club meetings would start after the holiday break.

"Hey, Ron," Milo asked, picking his partymember out from the crowd. "What's a holiday break?"

"You _don't even know what a holiday break is?_" Ron asked, flabbergasted. "_Everyone_—"

Hermione coughed pointedly.

"—here would like nothing more than to illuminate you on this subject," Ron finished smoothly.

"Everyone gets to go home for Christmas," Hermione explained.

"Do we have to?" Milo and Harry asked simultaneously.

"Jinx," muttered Harry.

"What? Where?" Milo asked, looking around warily.

"Nevermind," said Harry. "It's a Muggle thing."

"No," Hermione said. "You can stay for the holidays, but almost nobody does."

"Cool," said Milo.

"Also, what's Christmas?" Milo asked. Hermione, who had the bad timing to be drinking from a glass of water right then, snorted her drink from her nose.

"_What's Christmas?_" she asked. "_Everyone_ knows... ah. Ahem. It's a holiday that happens once a year on December 25th where people give each other presents."

"Do I need a costume again?"

"No. Costumes on Christmas are strictly optional."

"Will there be Trolls?"

"No, there's just Father Christmas and his elves," Hermione said, regretting it instantly.

"_Elves_ again, eh?" Milo asked, rubbing his hands together. "Harry, put them on the list. These _elves_ have come up enough now that I'm sure they must be relevant to _something_... what sort of elf are they, these ones that work for this 'Father Christmas?'"

"Christmas elves," Hermione said in a quiet voice.

"Must be an obscure, non-core subrace. I'll keep an eye out for them. What's Father Christmas?"

"He... _children_ believe he travels to everyone's house at night on a flying sleigh and delivers presents on Christmas," Hermione explained. "But nobody _really_ thinks he's real. People also call him Santa Claus."

"_Santa Claws?_ This just keeps getting worse and worse!" Milo said. "He must be an exceptionally powerful caster to be able to cast enough _Time Stops_ to get all the way around the world in a single night... unless he has a use-activated Magic Item... wow, that would be worth a fortune."

"But—he's not really _real_," Hermione insisted.

"I can't tell you how many times I've heard that before," Milo snorted. "'there are tales—unfounded, of course—of a fell monster in the woods...' or 'they speak, in whispered voices, of a wolf that walks among men... I'm sure it's just rumour, though.' Hermione," Milo said, in the tone of someone talking to a small, ignorant child, "if there's one thing I'm surprised you haven't learned by now, it's that _all rumours are true_."

"But _Father Christmas isn't real_," she insisted.

"Oh, really?" Milo asked. "Harry once told me that Muggles don't believe in dragons, magic, elves, _or_ goblins," Milo scoffed. "And all of those things are real."

"That's _no_ reason to think—"

"Hermione, how many of the things you believed as a _small_ child, only to find out as a _medium_ child were make-believe, turned out to be real when, as a _large_ child, you discovered you were a witch?"

There was a brief silence as Hermione did some mental arithmetic.

"Most of them," Hermione admitted with a frown. "But come on. Father Christmas? Not even _wizards_ believe in him—right, Ron?" Ron didn't respond. "Ron?"

"F-Father Christmas isn't real?" he asked, stunned. "Fred and George said they saw him, once..."

"Oh, he's real alright," Milo said grimly. "And worse: he's in league with the elves."

With that, Milo strode off to his favourite armchair (one in the corner which presented him with a clear view of the room, while also being close enough to the window that he could dive out and _Feather Fall_ in an emergency), pulling materials out of his Belt of Hidden Pouches.

"Where are you going?" Harry asked.

"I have to put the finishing touches on my Robe of Arcane Might," Milo said. "I might be needing it, soon." He had to find a way to get out of his detentions, they were cutting into his crafting time. Maybe if he could slay Santa Claws and take his magic iItem of _Time Stop_...

Milo wasn't sure exactly what this Father Christmas's connection was to the drow in the kitchen that tried to poison him, but one thing was for sure:

If Santa—or any of his little elves—tried anything on or about Christmas, they weren't going to just walk away from it.


	17. Chapter 17: White Christmas

Author's Notes: To anyone who didn't check yesterday (Sunday), and it confused, this is the _second _bonus chapter this week. If the last thing you remember in the story is an angry McGonagall pulling Milo from a meeting with Quirrell, you need to go back a chapter.

Also, to my absolute horror, as The Lost Hibiki pointed out, I've been reading the requirements on Spontaneous Divination wrongly this whole time. I am so, _so_ sorry—my intent from the very beginning was to have Milo stay strictly within the confines of the Rules as Written (RAW) in order to poke fun at some of the quirks and inconsistencies in D&D, and also so that D&D fans would have a very clear understanding of Milo's abilities (making it all the more fun to try to figure out how he's going to get out of a tough position). As it turns out, Spontaneous Divination requires substitution of one of a Wizard's bonus feats _other_ than Scribe Scroll, meaning it isn't available for Milo until level five (meaning he can't have used it before his battle with the Troll). Normally, for an error like that, I would go back and edit the previous chapters to fix it, but in this case Milo's use of Spontaneous Divination is too deeply interwoven within the plot to pull it out. I hope the hardcore D&D fans out there aren't too put off by my mistake!

The best I can do is apologize, and say that _either_ Milo comes from a campaign world run by a DM who house-ruled Spontaneous Divination's prereqs, or alternatively, Milo is _such a munchkin_ that he figured out how to get it early even though I never could.

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

"Hey, Harry!" said Milo excitedly, running up to his partymember in their dorm room. It was the day before the holiday, and everyone was eagerly awaiting two weeks at home—everyone, that is, except Harry and Milo, who were staying.

"What's up?" Harry asked.

"Check this out," he said, holding up an ordinary-looking Hogwarts school uniform.

"You finally done tinkering with that thing?" Harry asked. "You said it would be done weeks ago."

"Yeah, well," Milo said, "feature creep, you know. And then there's all the detentions. Anyways, take this," Milo said, passing Harry the Cold Iron dagger that he kept in his magic belt.

"Why do you have a knife?"

"Okay," Milo said, practically bursting with excitement. "Now, stab it!"

"This is a pretty serious-looking knife."

"Never mind that, stab! Stabbity stab!"

"You carry this around all the time? I think that's against school rules."

"Oh, _come on!_ Those wands are lethal weapons and they give them to eleven-year-olds, what's a Masterwork shiv here and there? Now _stab!_" Milo was bouncing on his heels.

"Is this like the time you threw a mug at me?"

"_Exactly_ like that! This robe is practically _made_ of _Mage Armour!_"

"Really?" Harry asked skeptically.

"No, not really. That's not how it works. But it's a simple enough lie that your unenlightened brain can handle it, now _stab the robes!_"

"Fine!" Harry stabbed them. Much to his surprise, the knife simply glanced off the garment as if it were made of hardened steel. Harry frowned, and stared at the knife.

"Eh? _Eh?_" Milo said. "What do you think? Cool, no? Totally ordinary Hogwarts uniform until _Blam!_ I get attacked, and guess what? It's godsdamn invincible!"

"This must not be a very good knife," Harry said, ignoring Milo completely and staring at the dagger in his hand.

"And that's not all!" Milo said. "It gives me +1 Caster Level to Conjuration spells!"

"I mean, it can't even cut through an ordinary school uniform."

"That means a whole _six more seconds_ of Hippogriff!"

"It _looks_ sharp. I wonder if it's some sort of trick dagger?"

"Or ten feet more range to _Glitterdust!_"

"Or maybe you had a metal plate hidden in that robe?"

"That's a whole 20% more Caster Levels!"

"No, then I'd have still cut the robe... must be the knife."

"Or 60% more with the Arcanist's Gloves!"

"Maybe I should try and cut something else with it. That would tell me for _sure_ if it was the knife or the robe."

"_And that's not all!_ I added in Fire Resistance 5 as a custom bonus feature."

"I'll go test it on the curtain of my bed, maybe."

"So now it, and by extension, I, am fire-proof!"

"Well, it works on the bed, that's for sure."

"Well, maybe not fire-proof. More like fire resistant."

"Maybe I should test it on Ron's bed, too, just to be sure."

"But it's more than enough to make me very nearly safe against conventional fire! With this, I can walk into a burning building for up to, on average, six minutes! Or if the dice are against me, only seventy-two seconds before burning to death. But that's still pretty good!"

"Works on Ron's bed just as well as mine. Maybe the knife is exceptionally good at cutting curtains, but suboptimal on cutting robes. There's only one way to be sure."

"You know, I think, somehow, that I'm not getting through to you here."

"Well, it certainly seems capable of cutting Ron's spare robes."

"I'll go show Hermione," Milo said dejectedly. "_She_ knows how to appreciate proper magic when she sees it."

"Fine, fine," Harry said distractedly. "I'll go visit Hagrid," Harry said finally. "He's been a bit down ever since Quirrell killed his dog."

To say that Hagrid was 'a bit down' was rather like saying the Elemental Plane of Water was 'a bit damp.' He'd been aimlessly wandering the halls in tears since Hallowe'en, bemoaning the loss of his beloved omnicidal tricephalous monstrosity. Milo shrugged and walked down the stairs into the Common Room.

True to form, Hermione was curled up on an armchair reading a thick, dusty old tome.

"Hey," said Milo. "Can I see that?"

"Hmmm?" Hermione asked absently, not looking up.

"_Scholar's Touch_," Milo muttered, tapping the book quickly.

"Hey!" Hermione said, pulling it away from him.

"Interesting," Milo said. "But, no matter how knowledgeable she is on the history of Goblin uprisings in Central Europe, she uses the word 'irregardless' twenty-four times. Just toss it in the fire like the kindling it is, would you?"

"Did you just come here to show off, or was there something else?" Hermione snapped.

"Actually, there was something. I need you to—hang on," Milo said, pulling on his robes. "Okay. I need you to light me on fire. See, my robes are—"

"_Incendio_," Hermione said, waving her wand in a complicated little pattern. A bright little jet of fire shot out of the tip of Hermione's wand, but dissipated as soon as it touched Milo's robes.

"I'm going to pretend that you waited for me to say 'my robes make me fire resistant' before you tried to immolate me," Milo said.

"I figured it was something like that," Hermione said absently. "Although, I had hoped otherwise. Don't touch my books."

"I'll try to keep that in mind."

Milo saw Hannah sitting in the corner, looking at him for some reason. As soon as he noticed her, she abruptly looked away. _Well, there's weirdoes all over._

"Hey," Milo said, walking over to her. "Whatcha up to?"

"Just, uh, reading the _Tales of Beedle the Bard_," she said.

"It's upside-down," Milo said.

"What, really?" Hannah asked in alarm, glancing down at it. "No, it's not!"

"Nah, but you checked. Anyways, look, there was something I'd been meaning to ask you for a while, now," Milo said. He wasn't quite sure how to go about this.

"Yes?" Hannah asked, her heart beating rapidly.

"Well, it's about something I've sort of been wondering about with regards to you," he said. "Something I just can't figure out."

"Mmhmm?" Hannah said, not trusting herself to speak.

"I was wondering—you remember that day in September, the first time we all had detention for Snape? We were cleaning statues, watched by the Baron?"

Hannah nodded quickly.

"Then you vanished, and I lead the search to find you," (Hannah felt like she was about to burst) "and eventually had to enlist the aid of the Defence Professor and most of Hogwarts' portraits," Milo continued. "But eventually, we found you." Hannah just nodded again. "You were in the lake."

"What?" Hannah asked.

"The lake. We found you in the Hogwarts lake. What on _Earth_ were you doing there?"

"You came here to ask me about the lake." said Hannah flatly.

"Yup," said Milo cheerfully.

"Oh, _look_ at the time, I really must be going now, things to do, people to see, lakes to fall into, gotta run, cheerio, _bye_." Hannah gathered up her stuff and strode out of the Common Room like a woman with a purpose.

"She went down one of Hogwarts' trick corridors," Hermione said idly, not looking up from her book. "It turned into a slide and she came out right into the lake. If not for the giant squid, I think we'd all be doing it on hot days. And that was a mean thing you just did."

"What, asking her how she got laked? I can't figure how you could put any malicious intent into _that_."

"Until you did right in front of me, neither could I," Hermione said, turning a page.

"Should I go find her and apologize?"

"_No_. Absolutely not. Believe me, in this case, it's better to feign ignorance."

"People are weird," Milo said under his breath, staring out the window. Being the middle of winter in Northern Scotland, what he saw was mostly white. He could only see a few yards because snowstorms give a -1 to Spot every 2.5 feet. Milo resisted (barely) the urge to say, 'I'm sure everything's _all white_.'

"You know," Milo said idly. "If I could take the covers off all the books in the library and stitched them together" (Hermione looked up at him in horror) "then I could read the whole lot with a single _Scholar's Touch_."

"I think Madam Pince would have the books rebound with your skin as a warning to the rest of us," Hermione said. "And I'd be right there holding you down while she did. _Don't_—"

"Touch your books, yeah, I remember."

"Why don't you go make some more magic doodads or something?" Hermione asked testily.

"Can't," Milo said. "You can only work on a Magic Item up to eight hours a day."

"Where on _Earth_ did you find eight hours already today? We only got out of class an hour ago!"

"Well, what do _you_ do in History of Magic?"

"I take notes, of course!"

"That's what Mordenkainen's for," Milo grinned.

"You trust your _rat_," Hermione said, aghast, "to listen in class for you?"

"'Course. He wasn't doing anything else at the time."

"_How can your rat write?_"

"Easy. He can speak to me in a sort of unique little language. The rules clearly state that '_A literate character (anyone but a Barbarian who has not spent skill points to become literate) can read and write any language she speaks. Each language has an alphabet, though sometimes several spoken languages share a single alphabet._' Mordenkainen is, obviously, not a Barbarian; he can therefore write in an undecipherable code that only I can read, which, incidentally, looks a lot like Elvish."

Hermione frowned.

"That's a pretty shaky read of the rules, and—wait, _what_ rules?"

Milo snorted.

"When you people are taught to count," Milo said, "we're taught to abuse poorly thought-out rules."

"You were in _lessons as a child_ to abuse rules?" Hermione was horrified.

"Nah, skipped 'em all to fight kobolds in the sewers. Myra (cityoflight!cityof_magic!_) city law states that 'children under the age of twelve must attend school,' but it never said they had to 'attend school' more than once."

Hermione's mouth moved, but no words came out.

"It's funny, I got an A in my Munchkinry course without ever showing up past the first lesson. All the students that showed up failed."

"Out!" Hermione said, throwing a cushion at him. "Just let me read in peace!" She reached for another cushion.

Milo, despite having faced down an Acromantula, a Troll, dozens of Skeletons, and Kobolds and Goblins beyond measure, was disinclined to face a wrathful Hermione, and promptly utilized a strategic manoeuvre to leave the Common Room.

"I'm bored," Milo declared proudly as he exited the portal.

"That's nice," said the Fat Lady. "You should try hanging on a wall for several hundred years."

Boredom was a state so rare for an adventurer that decided to savour it for as long as he could. Being boredom, of course, this only lasted for about a microsecond before he was dying for something to do.

"Hey," Milo said suddenly. "You know about this world's quaint little culture, right?"

"I know anything and everything that can be discovered by hanging on a wall, watching students walk past, and pretending not to hide a secret passageway. So, yes."

"This _Christmas_ thing," Milo said. "I'm led to understand that people give each other presents."

"Correct," said the Fat Lady.

"Now, when they say 'people'—"

"—that includes you, yes."

"Crap."

"Indeed."

"And if, say, _someone_ were to hypothetically upset a friend of theirs in the days leading up to this gift-giving holiday, and were, for some reason, recommended against direct apology—"

"Is this friend female?"

"Yes."

"Then the gift had better be damn special."

"_Crap_."

"Indeed."

"I have, what, eight days?"

"Seven."

"I'd best get started, then."

"Correct."

o—o—o—o

The vast majority of Hogwarts' students went home over the holidays, and for those who remained, the two week break was a time to lie around in their respective Common Rooms, playing Exploding Snap and (for the less danger-inclined) wizarding chess.

Not so for Milo, who spent day and night working on Christmas presents, researching spells, and 'resting,' (really, planning and setting traps for the arrival of the dreaded Santa Claws) each in exactly 8 hour increments per day. When Christmas Eve rolled around, Ron and Harry were surprised to see Milo, weary and exhausted, trudge zombie-like into their dormitory.

"Blimey," said Ron, who was staying at the castle because his parents went to visit his brother Charlie in Romania, "we thought you'd gone home for the holidays."

"Where have you been?" Harry asked. "Nobody's seen you at mealtimes, in the Common Room, or even in bed."

"Christmas," Milo slurred.

"When was the last time you _slept?_" asked Harry, looking equal parts concerned and amused.

"Over a hundred thousand, eight hundred rounds ago," Milo said. People, from where he was from, were very good at telling time—but only in rounds, a unit of six seconds.

"What are you carrying, there?" Ron asked, pointing at a heavy bag Milo had slung over his shoulder.

"Christmas," Milo repeated, and slipped into unconsciousness in his four-poster bed.

"Nutter," Ron said. "But at least he's on our side."

The residents of Gryffindor Tower awoke to an unpleasant surprise on Christmas morning.

"_Glitterdust!_ _Obscuring Mist! Summon 1d4+1 Celestial Giant Fire Beetles!_"

"Ah! Gerroff!"

"I've gone blind!"

"He was _here!_ Father Christmas was _here!_ While I slept! Oh, _why_ did I sleep? _Who let me sleep?_ We didn't post any sentries! _Grease!_" Milo was standing in the middle of the dorm, casting offensive spells at random. The room was full of dense fog, concealing everything except for blindingly bright sparkling gold particles of magic and the red, glowing eyes of four giant beetles that were skittering about, clicking loudly. "We'll all be killed!"

Fortunately, Milo ran out of spells in about a minute, and the protesting struggles of Ron and Harry managed to convince him that Santa "Claws" wasn't about to jump out from under a bed and kill him.

"And that," said Ron, "is why you need to sleep more than once every eight nights. Happy Christmas, by the way."

"I've got some presents!" Harry said in surprise, the small pile of wrapped gifts visible now that the dust had cleared and the noise had stopped.

"What were you expe—" Ron began, but Milo cut him off.

"—You don't _normally_ get presents?" Milo asked.

"Nah," said Harry. "This is the first time!"

"So... so... they're not _mandatory?_ I didn't _have_ to get you anything?"

"Blimey," said Ron, "I don't think you've quite grasped the meaning of Christmas."

Harry groaned.

"If anyone suggests we go on an adventure to discover the true meaning of Christmas," he said, "I'm going to have to put my foot down."

"An adventure, eh?" Milo asked, his eyes alight.

"No. _No_. No adventures," insisted Ron firmly. "We open presents. We have Christmas Dinner. We play games. We have fun with friends and family. That's _it_."

"Oh," said Milo, looking downcast.

The first package opened was by Harry from his aunt and uncle. It contained something Milo had never seen before, something... unnatural.

"What _is_ it?" Milo asked, looking fascinated.

"I dunno," said Ron. "Look at the shape!"

"It's a fifty-pence piece," Harry said, biting down laughter.

"Well, where's the rest of it?" Milo asked.

"That's all they sent."

"So, if this is a piece of the Fifty Pence," Milo said thoughtfully, "what happens when we combine all seven shards—there are seven, right? It's usually either seven or three—do we become masters of the Fifty Pence?"

Harry doubled over with laughter.

"No, mate, I heard my dad talking about this once," Ron said in hushed tones. "It's what Muggles use for money!"

"What, _this?_" Milo asked. "It's not made of gold, platinum, silver, or even copper! How do they know how much it's worth?"

"My dad couldn't figure it out, either," Ron said. "He theorizes that Muggles have a sense that wizards lack that tells them how much their money is worth, and my dad's a professional."

"I guess they'd have to have something to balance out their lack of magic," Milo mused.

Harry was in real danger of dying due to lack of air, he was laughing so hard.

"I don't trust it," Ron said. "If it's not made of precious metals, what's to stop people from just Transfiguring more of it?"

Milo gasped.

"They don't have _any_ magic at all! They _can't_ just Transmute or Transfigure money!" Milo was amazed.

"Whoa," said Ron. "That's _mindblowing_. They can use _anything_ as money, then. I should write my dad about this."

In the end, Harry let Ron keep the coin to show Mr Weasley, and turned to his other presents.

"You got me new spectacles, Milo?" Harry asked when he opened Milo's gift. "They... look exactly my current ones."

"So nobody will know the difference," Milo said, tapping the side of his nose in a conspiratorial way.

"Er... thank you? I suppose a spare will come in handy," Harry said dubiously.

"Put them on," Milo insisted. Harry, obligingly, slipped off his current pair and put on Milo's new ones.

"Blimey!" Harry gasped.

"They _look_ like ordinary specs," Milo said, "but they're really Eyes of the Eagle. They give +5 to Spot—that means you can see things fifty feet away with the same level of detail as you could see something right in front of your nose without them—and, because they're enchanted using _my_ form of magic, none of your wizards can tell that they're anything out of the ordinary."

Harry stared at Milo for a moment, then his face broke into a wide grin.

"So I can wear them during Quidditch without breaking any rules!" he said. "Or at least, without getting _caught_. Thanks, Milo! These are _awesome_."

"You'll have to get a proper eye doctor to have the lenses done in your prescription, though," said Milo, who had asked Hermione earlier about how glasses worked. "Until then, the -2 penalty you incur will counter out some of the bonus."

"Shouldn't be too much of a problem," Harry said.

"Hope you like them," Milo said. "You _did_ pay for them, after all."

Ron, who was staring at Harry's gift enviously, sifted through his (rather large; he has a big family) pile of presents to find Milo's. Unwrapping it revealed an ordinary looking quill.

"What's it do?" Ron asked eagerly.

"It writes words," Milo said.

"That's all?" Ron asked, sounding disappointed.

"Yeah... but it does it all by itself. I made this one custom, it's my own invention. See, what you do is, you just tap it to a piece of paper or parchment or whatever to activate it. It'll immediately start copying whatever you were looking at when it started, and won't stop till it's done or after 2,500 words, whichever comes first. I figure it'll come in dead handy when you're copying Hermione's notes," Milo explained. "It'll even turn the page and keep going on the next one when necessary."

"Blimey," Ron gasped, holding the quill like it was a long-lost family member. "That's bloody _brilliant_."

"Only works once a day, though, so keep it away from parchment so you don't trigger it by accident. I call it the Pen of Plagiarism +5."

"Plus five what?" Ron asked.

"Nothing," Milo said unabashedly, "but where I come from, you can charge exponentially more for stuff if it's plus something."

Milo turned to his presents, which, as it turned out, were (as far as he was concerned) even better than minor magic items. Each of Neville, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had decided independently to get him a huge package of Every Flavoured Beans.

"I think," Milo said around a huge mouthful of the bizarre sweets, "that I like this whole Christmas thing. A lot of work, though."

Harry (wearing an emerald sweater knitted by Mrs Weasley) opened his last package. A silvery-grey, gossamer cloth floated out of it and fell to the floor.

Ron gasped.

"Huh," Harry said. "Looks like a cloak."

"Put it on," Ron urged. "If it's what I think it is... well, there's only one way to find out."

"You," Harry said pointedly, "have been spending too much time with Hermione." Nevertheless, did, and promptly vanished.

Milo and Ron both gasped.

"It's an Invisibility Cloak!" Ron said, while Milo said "It's a _Cloak of Invisibility_!"

Harry pulled it off.

"Why do they call it that?" he asked.

"'Cause it makes you invisible," said Ron.

"Duh," added Milo.

"I didn't _feel_ invisible," Harry said skeptically. "Here, you put it on," he passed it to Ron, who held it reverently. True to form, Ron vanished as soon as he put it on.

"Huh," said Harry. "Don't see that every day."

"I do, actually," Milo pointed out. He usually prepared _Invisibility_ once a day. "Oh! I've been meaning to test something, actually. Harry, put it on again."

When Harry complied, Milo cast _See Invisibility_. Harry appeared in front of him as a translucent shape.

"Excellent," Milo said. "Score one for my magic, for once." _Must be because of the vague wording of_ See Invisibility_, _Milo thought. _It just says "reveals any objects or creatures that are invisible_," not_ "creatures that are affected by _Invisibility."

"Did it come with a card?" Ron asked curiously. "Those things are _really_ expensive; I wonder who would spend that much on you?"

Harry rooted about on the ground for a moment, then produced a small note with a handwritten message.

_Your father left this in my possession before  
he died. It is time it was returned to you.  
Use it well.  
A Very Merry Christmas to you.  
_

"That," Milo said, "is singularly unhelpful. Put it on the list."

Harry was looking at the note strangely.

"What's the matter?" Ron asked.

"Nothing," Harry said. Milo shrugged, and began preparing spells for the day. Fortunately, his ... episode ... in the morning had come from _yesterday's_ spells. Harry and Ron settled down to play a game of Exploding Snap.

"Hey," Milo said suddenly, having finished renewing his allotment of spells. "Anyone know if Hannah's staying for the holidays?"

"Uh," said Ron. "Yeah, I think I saw her at dinner the other day, with Lavender Brown."

"Cool. Bye," Milo said, leaving the dorm abruptly. On his way out, he passed Fred and George, wearing matching Weasley jumpers.

"—and then we'll say '_we_ know we're called Gred and Forge,'" Fred was saying in a low voice.

"Oh, hey Milo," George said as Milo passed.

"Hey," Milo said, barely giving them a glance. "Wait," he said, and turned. "Have either of you seen Hannah Abbot around?"

"Yeah," said Fred. "Last I saw, she was heading out of the Common Room."

"Oh," George added. "She was wearing a coat and scarf, so she was probably going outside."

"What, in _that?_" Milo asked, gesturing at the window. The snow was really picking up. "Didn't you try and stop her?"

"Yeah, but she ignored us. Don't worry, I'm sure she'll be—"

"—_all white_."

Milo groaned, and not just because of the terrible pun. He was going to have to go out and find her to deliver her mandatory apology present. Milo hustled out of the Common Room and down the stairs to the Great Hall, pulling on parts of his Cold Weather Outfit from his Belt of Hidden Pouches as he went. On the way, he decided that his next project would be to make his uniform Shiftweave as well, which allowed it to transform into other outfits instantly.

Milo opened the massive Great Hall doors to find snow piled up to his head.

"I am _not_ walking in that," Milo said. "_Fly_," he cast, and suddenly felt himself become weightless. "_Locate Object—Hannah's Robes_," he cast, and felt a light tug to his right. Milo effortlessly floated up off the ground and through the heavy snow.

_Shouldn't she have left tracks?_ Milo wondered, looking around. Of course, it was possible that the snow had filled them in already... but really, with snow that deep, she'd have to dig a _tunnel_ to get around.

Something felt very wrong about this whole situation. The wind was picking up, and the cold began to bite effortlessly through Milo's robes (Milo decided an _Endure Elements_ enchantment was in order as well). _You'd have to be suicidal to willingly venture out here_, Milo thought. _And she went alone?_ Highly suspect.

As Milo flew, skimming a few feet above the ground, he felt his _Locate Object_ spell abruptly end.

_Okay..._ Milo thought, his teeth chattering. _Either she entered an area warded against Divination, she's surrounded by lead, someone dispelled my spell, or she's out of range._

_Let's assume the first one is out, because there isn't much interaction between my magic and the local strain. It's possible their wards against detection would work, but improbable. My spell can't have been dispelled, because I'd have noticed when I made the opposed Caster Level check... unless the local equivalent doesn't allow a check._

Milo groaned. He really had no idea what happened.

Only one thing for it.

"_Circle Dance,_" Milo cast quietly, swapping out _Summon Monster III_. _Circle Dance_ is an obscure spell that locates the direction from you to a creature (much like _Locate Object_ or _Locate Creature_) except that it had no range limit. However, it takes a minute to cast, burns a 3rd-level spell slot, and only has an instantaneous effect—if the target moves, you won't have any idea. On the plus side, it gives a vague impression of the target's physical and emotional condition.

Milo spun in a circle with his eyes closed until he finished casting the spell, which left him feeling dizzy. He opened his eyes, pointing in the direction she was in, and _knowing_ she was unharmed and, emotionally, perfectly content (which was concerning, but not the _most_ concerning thing).

Milo groaned.

He was looking directly at the Forbidden Forest.

_Really_, he wondered, _why did I ever think this little trip _wouldn't_ end up with me in mortal danger?_

With a sigh and a longing glance at the comfortable Gryffindor tower, now only a speck of light in the whiteout, Milo sped off towards the forest.

Milo had just gotten past the edge of the forest when _Fly_ ran out of duration, and he fell heavily in the snow.

"Should have known," he said, his teeth chattering, "that, if foul weather is mentioned, I'd soon be out slogging in it. The c-c-castle is making me c-c-complacent."

With difficulty, Milo cast another _Locate Object_ on Hannah's clothing (swapping out the previously prepared _Invisibility_). To his surprise, she was somewhere behind him.

At the start of a combat, all characters involved have to make an Initiative roll with a bonus based off of their Dexterity and a few other things. This determines the order in which combatants act—people who rolled higher on Initiative, due to luck or by virtue of possessing quick reflexes, act before those who rolled lower. This makes _Nerveskitter_ (a 1st level spell which grants +5 to Initiative rolls) an extremely unusual spell, as it must be cast _while_ rolling Initiative, or, in other words, _after_ a character is aware that there is trouble but _before_ his muscles have had time to respond to his commands. For someone such as you or I, this is patently impossible. A Wizard, however, is somehow capable of both speaking the verbal components _and_ waving his hands about in a complicated gesture to cast the spell _before_ he is physically capable of doing either.

"_Nerveskitter_," Milo cast, speaking every syllable simultaneously and in harmony, in blatant violation of the laws of common sense. He was surrounded by a brief blue glow, and rolled to the side just as a glowing red bolt of magic flew past the space he had previously occupied. The bolt hit a tree, pieces of bark flying away from the contact point.

"_Mirror Image_," he cast, and a pair of illusory Milo duplicates appeared next to him. The real Milo lay down flat in the snow, minimizing his visibility.

Another red bolt of light hit one solidly in the torso, causing the image to fall to the ground, motionless.

Milo quickly ran through his options. He had no idea what the location or identity of his attacker was, which precluded the used of _Grease_,_ Glitterdust_, or, in fact, any offensive spell.

"_Summon Hippogriff,_" Milo cast. Hippogriffs could track by scent, so didn't strictly require vision. Milo grinned, happy that he had learned _Summon Monster III_ after his battle with the Troll.

The proud horse/eagle hybrid appeared in front of Milo with a shriek and ran forwards. It got about ten feet before Milo saw a green flash, and the summoned monster keeled over, dead.

_Holy crap_, Milo thought. _They're using the Killing Curse_.

And Milo was running low on spells.

_Okay,_ he thought in a panic. _Okay. It's not so bad. They clearly can't see you, either, right? Or you'd be dead already._

A few more curses flew over Milo's head and hit some evergreen trees, which promptly turned brown and withered, dropping needles.

_And they can cast more than one per round. Or there's three of them, ganging up on me._

A desperate plan came to Milo's mind. None of his prepared spells would help him, as far as he could tell, so he had to use something he could cast without prior preparation—a Divination. Most casters believed Divination to be a soft school, but Milo knew better.

Divinations could kill.

"_True Strike_," he cast, granting his next attack a +20 to hit, which would be enough to hit an unusually petite fly at a distance from about here to Jupiter.

More curses flew over his head.

"_Guided Shot_," he cast, which allowed his next attack to ignore cover and concealment. Neither of these would help him target a _Grease_ or _Glitterdust_, or even a _Fireball_ if he knew how to cast it, as those were all area attacks. They would only help him with a direct attack, the kind of which required accuracy—also known as the type of spell Milo avoided like the plague.

So, instead of casting a spell at all, he drew his (so far, never used) Cold Iron dagger and threw it in a completely random direction. Milo's plan was to then cast _Locate Object_ on the dagger, which did a paltry 1d4-1 damage (practically nonlethal against the targets Milo was used to), which would let him identify the location of his foe, so he could follow up with an arcane barrage.

It was only after the dagger left his fingers, and he had confirmed a critical hit for double damage, that he realized his mistake.

The dagger, guided by Milo's magic, had flown in exactly the same direction as his previous cast of _Locate Object_, which was still active, told him Hannah was standing.

Milo heard a sickening thud, and the curses abruptly stopped flying.


	18. Chapter 18: Red Christmas

Author's Notes: I just realized that, while D&D convention italicizes the names of Spells, it doesn't italicize Magic Items. I'll start from here on writing them without italics, and maybe go back and change previous chapters if I have time. However, as always, writing new chapters takes priority over messing with the formatting on old ones.

Also, I realized today that I'd been doing something this whole time that I hadn't actually said anywhere – I actually roll Milo's hit points every level. It's much more fun for me, that way.

P.S. There will be a bonus chapter on either Sunday or Monday.

EDIT: Confirming that there _will_ be a bonus chapter tomorrow (Sunday), which should make up for the relative shortness of this chapter.

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

"H-Hannah?" Milo asked, stunned. _Gods, what have I done?_

There was no response.

_She can't be dead. It was only one attack_, he thought to himself

_It was a critical hit_, said a tiny voice in his head.

_A critical hit on a _dagger, the Milo insisted.

_She might only be level one_, wheedled the tiny voice.

_That's six damage, _tops! Milo protested. _It's physically impossible for six damage to kill _anything.

_Maybe back home... but have you seen any indication at all that these people only die at -10 hit points?_

Everything_ dies at -10. Fact of the universe._

Your_ universe. Remember how surprised Madam Pomfrey always is at your physiology? You can't take _anything_ for granted._

_She _can't _be dead_.

_Then why are you so afraid go to check on her?_

Milo couldn't think of any suitable response to that.

"Okay," Milo said, out loud. "I'll go find her, and she'll be fine. Just... fine. You'll see."

Milo stood up from his prone position, shaking off snow. He waded through the deep snow to where _Locate Object_ told him Hannah lay.

_Or is standing,_ Milo thought stubbornly. _She could be standing there, happy as a clam. A happy clam. Not like one of those sad clams._

"Hannah?" Milo called again, yet was again unanswered.

Abruptly, the snow stopped blocking Milo's vision. He realized vaguely that he was standing under the canopy of a tree. A nice, old-growth tree. Milo thought it might be a willow, but then wondered idly if this world even _had_ willows. There was no reason to think they did, after all, everything _else_ seemed to be so completely different. Elves working in kitchens. No limit on spells per day. Gradual learning instead of discrete increments. Goblins running banks. Dragons slaughtered to make gloves.

An, apparently, completely different damage/wound system.

Hannah Abbot lay against the tree, slouched into a half-sitting position. Her wand was held loosely in her right hand, her left was clutching the hilt of Milo's dagger, sticking out of her stomach. It was difficult to tell — her school uniform was black, after all — but there was a lot of blood. A scary amount of blood. Her head was lolled to the side, and she wasn't moving.

"Oh gods. Oh gods," Milo said. Milo was far from a religious person, but if ever there was a time for divine intervention, that time was now.

Hannah stirred feebly.

_Holy crap. Pelor, I owe you one! I'll slay some vampires for you when I get home._

She reached for her wand.

Milo blinked. _Maybe she knows some healing spell?_

"A... a..." Hannah said weakly.

"Hey, Hannah," Milo said gently. "You'll be okay, okay? I've... I've got a Healer's Kit and +1 from Wisdom, so I can do first-aid, okay? So just... don't move." Milo slowly reached into his Belt of Hidden Pouches for the kit.

"Av..." Hannah said again.

"Tell me back at the castle, when you explain just _what_ you were doing out here, kay?"

"_Avada Kedavra_."

A brilliant green bolt shot out of the tip of Hannah's wand, but her shaking hand fouled her aim. A bush behind Milo burst into flame.

Milo instinctively ducked behind a nearby tree as curses started flying again.

"Okay," Milo said. "She's clearly possessed or something, and whatever's doing it is trying to kill me." As if to emphasize the point, a curse slammed into the other side of the tree Milo was using as cover, and dead leaves rained down, thinning out the canopy and allowing snow to start falling back onto Milo's head.

Carefully, Milo (very slowly) peeked around the side of the tree. Hannah was still slumped on the ground, looking deathly pale. Milo pulled his head back just as a Killing Curse flew by close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from it, and the tip of his nose burned as if it had been exposed to the sun for hours.

_How am I supposed to help a person who's bleeding to death if they're trying to kill me?_ Milo wondered. _If I go over to her to try and stabilize her _— _or, for that matter, de-possess her with _Protection From Evil (which requires physical contact) —_ I'll end up like this tree._

Milo heard Hannah coughing weakly. It was a wet, gurgling sound. _Oh, that _so _cannot be good_.

_I can blind her with _Glitterdust _... but really, I have _no _idea what that would do to her in her state. If a _single dagger _can do _this_, I shouldn't really take any chances. For all I know, _Glitterdust_ could kill her outright._

_On the other hand, doing nothing _will_ kill her_.

"I'm really sorry about this!" Milo said around the corner. "_Glitterdust!_" Hundreds of thousands of golden sparks flew out of Milo's spread hand, illuminating the thick white snow like twinkling faerie lights.

Her silence was uncanny. Normally, when people are blinded by _Glitterdust_, they scream and complain and flail around, but Hannah... if she had any response, Milo couldn't tell.

_Maybe she made her Will save?_ Milo thought. _And she can see just fine, and if I stick my head out again the last thing I'll see will be green... well, at least it's holiday appropriate._

Had Hannah been carrying a gun, or had Milo been from this universe to begin with, he likely would have slowly stuck a hand out to determine if his attacker would re-open fire. At worst, by that logic, your hand will be injured. However, in Milo's form of magic, the location on the body that the spell hits is irrelevant: if _Disintegrate_ hits even your baby toe, you're powder. As far as Milo knew, and he didn't even _question_ that this wasn't the case, if Avada Kedavra so much as glances the tip of your finger, you're waking up in your Alignment-appropriate Outer Planar afterlife.

Milo stepped out from around his safety, praying to his often-forgotten deities that whatever was possessing Hannah had been blinded.

The thing about snow, especially thick snow, is that it's impossible to walk through it without making a distinctive crunching sound. As soon as Milo had taken a single step, her unseeing, bloodshot eyes whipped towards his general direction, wand raised.

A red curse of some sort flew out of Hannah's wand, but missed him by several yards and hit impacted the snow harmlessly, causing a cloud of steam to erupt as the snow flash melted.

Milo felt like an idiot. _They need wands to cast_, he thought. _That little stick _really _should have been my first target_.

"_Grease!_" Milo cast, not on the ground underneath Hannah, or even on Hannah herself, but on her wand. Hannah remained expressionless, but Milo imagined (perhaps, somewhat fancifully) that her possessor at least blinked in surprise as her only weapon slipped harmlessly out of her hands, landing lightly in the soft snow. In some detached part of his brain, Milo realized this was the first battle he'd ever won in which he really didn't care about the XP earned.

Milo heaved a sigh of relief and walked over to his injured friend.

"_Master's Touch_," Milo cast, granting him +4 to Heal, which, combined with his naturally high Wisdom and Healer's Kit, would allow him to easily make the check to stabilize Hannah. Sudden insight flooded his brain about human anatomy and emergency medical procedures.

"Okay, I'd best leave the dagger in," he said quietly. "Because I could do _more_ damage just taking it out." Hannah stared at him blankly, her eyes still wide open. Milo winced — human reflex, when looking at an exceptionally bright light (such as a laser or, in this case, _Glitterdust_) is to close one's eyes immediately to prevent damage. Whatever was controlling Hannah had evidently overridden that instinct, leaving her eyes red and bloodshot, glittering gold like the rest of her. Unfortunately, there was nothing Milo could do to end the spell once it had started.

As Milo got to work cleaning the injury and trying to stop the bleeding, Hannah stirred again.

"What, you're not still trying to kill me, are you?" Milo asked, surprised. As a precaution, he dismissed the _Grease_ spell on the wand and stashed it in his Belt of Hidden Pouches.

Despite her injuries, Hannah moved like lightning, ignoring the pain entirely. One moment, her hands were by her sides; the next, they were pulling the dagger out of her own injury. Milo blinked, then snorted.

_What's she going to do_, he thought, stab _me?_ _Unlike her, I have twelve hit points_. _That's three good stabs before I even notice it, _minimum_._

Hannah lunged at Milo, nicking his arm for a paltry two damage.

"Better safe than sorry," Milo said, mostly to himself. "_Protection from Evil_." He tapped Hannah on the forehead and a glowing gold cylinder briefly appeared around Hannah before, leaving her protected from mental control for the duration of the spell (seven minutes with the help of his Arcanist's Gloves).

"Gah!" Hannah shrieked in pain, rubbing at her eyes frantically. This only had the effect of smearing blood into them.

"Hey, Hannah, it's okay," Milo said in what he hoped was a soothing tone. "Your vision will return in a few seconds. I know it's hard, but I need you to stop moving while I try to deal with the bleeding, okay? Can you do that for me?"

Mutely, Hannah nodded, tears starting to flow from her eyes.

Mordy climbed out of Milo's belt and helped him hold a bandage in place while Milo tied it off. The rat knew, without any form of communication necessary, exactly where to be and what to do to help Milo the most — a combination of their long partnership, empathic link, and the fact that Mordy benefited from Milo's _Master's Touch_ spell just as much as he did.

"I'm..." Hannah started to say. A brief memory of when he first encountered her out here, and she struggled to say the words to curse him came to mind.

"Don't say anything," Milo said.

"I'm s-sorry," Hannah said weakly.

"It's fine, I'm here, I have magic, I can get you to safety," Milo said. _How the Hells am I going to pull that off?_ He wondered. _All I have left are _Benign Transposition_, _Feather Fall, _a pair of _Prestidigitations_, _Dancing Lights_, and _Mage Hand.

Not for the first, or last, time, Milo wished he were a Cleric.

_Why, oh _why _didn't I buy that Healing Belt back in Myra (cityoflight!cityof_magic!)_when I had the chance?_ He thought bitterly. _Or at least a few Potions of Cure Light Wounds_.

"Uhm," Milo said. "I don't mean to shake your confidence in my abilities or anything," he said cautiously, "but I don't suppose you know any healing spells?"

"Sorry..." she said. "I'm... useless."

"Untrue," Milo lied. "_Dancing Lights_," he cast, in a vain hope that someone would see it and come to their rescue. In the current weather, however, it seemed all but impossible.

_I flew here in a more-or-less straight line at 120 feet per round for five minutes, sans one minute to cast circle dance... that's 4800 feet, or almost a mile. Normally I can hustle on foot at 60 feet per round, but carrying Hannah will cut that down to 40, and the snow will take it down to 20..._

Milo managed to conceal a groan. It would take, assuming everything went well (which, in his experience, was rare to the point of impossibility), twenty-four minutes to hike Hannah back to the castle. Twenty-four freezing minutes through snow deeper than he was tall. Twenty-four minutes at maximum carrying capacity.

Milo glanced at Hannah, who was shivering in a somewhat concerning manner. He really wasn't sure if she'd make it that far. Milo figured his best bet was to rig up some form of shelter, then return to the castle to get help.

Fortunately, being an experienced adventurer, he was absolutely _loaded_ with gear to help in the first part of that plan.

"So," Milo said in a conversational tone. "I'm going to make a tent, keep the snow off of you, alright?" A thought struck him. "But first, here." He reached a hand into one of the pockets of his belt and fished out a heavy, thick fur Winter Blanket and placed it over her shivering body. Milo, like any decent Wizard, tried to be prepared for anything.

"Th-thanks," she murmured. As an afterthought, he passed her his Bedroll as well.

Pulling fine silk rope (made by Elves, of course) and thick canvas sheets out of his magic belt, he immediately got down to work. He tied the rope between a four nearby trees in an X shape and used the canvas sheets (of which he had five) to create walls, and a ceiling. Looking critically at the result (which was most certainly not up to any code you could name), Milo realized the whole thing would fall apart if a decent-sized twig fell on it from one of the overhanging trees. To remedy this, he strung up a large fishing net about four feet over the 'tent' to catch falling objects. Lastly, Milo cut a small hole in the centre of the roof to allow smoke out, and started hunting for decent-sized sticks to use as firewood. He had his obligatory Wizard staff, of course, and his 11-foot pole, but the idea of burning either of those things was too horrible to contemplate. After finding a few moderately dry twigs, Milo gave up and decided to use a bucket as kindling (yes, he carried a wooden bucket in his extradimensional belt. You _never_ know when a bucket might come in handy; just because it never has doesn't mean it never will).

The whole process took about ten minutes. Milo was just stepping back to briefly admire his (crude) handiwork when he realized he should have been keeping better track of time: _Protection from Evil_ only lasted seven minutes. Hannah could have been repossessed for quite some time while he was wasting time breaking a bucket into pieces.

"Uh," Milo asked nervously, sticking his head into the covered area. "I don't mean to be, you know, insensitive or anything..."

"Hmmm?" Hannah asked.

"You don't feel, you know, _Evil_ or anything?"

"Nope," she said.

"Good, good..." Milo said dubiously. _Well, what would she do if she were, anyways? Spit at me?_ "Well, if you start feeling an overwhelming urge to murder me, let me know, would you?"

Hannah simply nodded weakly.

Milo briefly considered Manacling her, but quickly decided against it. If anything, that would give her possessing spirit/ghost/demon/whatever (assuming it was still in her) a heavy metal improvised bludgeon.

Milo glanced at the pile of firewood he'd created out of his bucket (one of his ever-dwindling physical ties to his old world) and sighed. He could light it with _Prestidigitation_, of course, but he was already running precariously low on magic and didn't think wasting it on something so frivolous would be a good idea.

Grumbling to himself, Milo employed the decidedly mundane method of Flint and Steel.

"You carry all this stuff around with you?" Hannah asked. It was the longest sentence he'd yet heard her say since her... accident.

"Yeah," Milo said, clicking away ineffectually at the flint. A few pathetic sparks appeared, but nothing ignited. "Saved me from the Troll... well, sort of. I mean, I got thrown through the window anyways. But it helped. A bit. Maybe."

"If you give me my wand," Hannah said, "I can light that for you."

Milo, grateful, had his hand halfway to the appropriate belt pocket when his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"No thanks," he said. "I love doing this by hand. Very zen." He also had Tindertwigs, of course, but he preferred to save those for a situation in which he _really_ needed fire as a Standard Action.

It took awhile, but eventually, Milo got his pitifully small fire going.

"Okay," Milo said. "Now, look. I'm going to go and get help," he said gently. "You just stay here, all right?"

"You're leaving me alone?" Hannah asked him.

"Uh... no. You'll have Mordy to protect you." With a flash of _COLD, UNHAPPY, SLEEP,_ Milo pulled his protesting familiar from his warm home in the belt. "Now, I know he doesn't look like much, but trust me. He's a badass."

Hannah gave him a peculiar look when, over the crackling of the flames, they heard a loud _crunch_ from the snow outside.

"Stay here," Milo commanded unnecessarily. He hesitated for a moment, then dived out of the tent as fast as he could, hoping to take whatever was out there by surprise.

Standing outside, looking somewhat surprised, was the most horrible little creature that Milo had seen in a long, long time. It looked a little like a Goblin, with thick, leathery green skin, red eyes, and long, sharp nails. It was wearing crudely-tanned leather breeches, but was naked from the waist up (Milo shuddered to think how cold that would be). As the creature recovered from its surprise, it grinned at him. Its teeth, of which it had several rows, had at some point been filed to needle-sharp points. In one hand was a short, crude, wickedly curved, needlessly hooked, serrated sword. Its most distinctive feature, by far, was its bright, unevenly-dyed blood red hat.

"_HolycrapRedcap!_" Milo gasped in surprise. He'd hoped that the psychotic, mass-murdering evil little Fey didn't have an alternate-universe version in this world. Milo wasn't sure whether the thing had been attracted by the smoke from the fire, commanded here by whatever had possessed Hannah, or was simply attracted by the girl's blood.

Unfortunately for Milo, who had already burned his one Nerveskitter for the day, the Redcap had a +5 Initiative bonus. The weird little creature (which are easily repelled by a variety of simple Charms and Hexes, none of which Milo knew or was, in any case, able to cast) charged at him and let out a screeching, high-pitched, ululating wail.

The Redcap brought its blade down in a high overhead chop which Milo caught, frantically, on the arm of his enchanted robe as he raised his hands in panic.

"_Acid Splash!_" Milo cast desperately. A thick green glob of acid hit the Redcap full in the face, causing it to take a step backwards, clutching at its head. Milo knew that _proper_ Redcaps had upwards of 22 hit points, depending on how many sentient creatures they've slain, although he had no idea what it would take to faze this world's equivalent.

The Redcap, its face now red and raw, again charged Milo, who put his 14 Dexterity to good use and sidestepped, just barely avoiding the wickedly sharp steel weapon. Milo, now out of spells, pulled his least favourite backup plan out of his belt.

Every Wizard has a staff. They come standard-issue. Some are gnarled and rough, some are covered in glowing arcane runes, while some are plain and practical. Many staffs are magical, although a smart Wizard realizes that, by and large, magical staffs are overpriced and distinctly use-impaired. Nevertheless, as has already been stated, every Wizard has a staff. A staff, for a Wizard, is like his robe or pointy hat. A Wizard without one of these three things would be as lacking as a political career without scandal or a trip to the dentist without an unpleasant aftertaste. Everyone knows this. Hells, even _Muggles_ know this. A staff is a symbol of a Wizard's power, of the triumph of knowledge and reason over chaos and insanity (note that Sorcerers, by the way, generally prefer spears, although this is _certainly_ coincidence), and as a warning to others: Do _Not_ Meddle, For I Am Subtle And Quick To Anger. Also, For Reality Is My Plaything.

What most people tend to forget is that, in addition to all of these things, a staff is _also_ a large, heavy, wooden stick.

A stick which Milo brought down on the head of the enraged Redcap.

_Hard_.

While the Redcap staggered in pain, Mordenkainen crept up behind it.

The Redcap took another swing, enraged beyond reason, but its quarry vanished just before the blade struck home. There was a quiet popping sound, and a small, spotted rat sat in the ground in front of it, staring upwards with unblinking eyes.

"— _Transposition_," Milo finished casting, standing, now, where Mordy had been lurking just a moment earlier. With a meaty _thud_, Milo whacked the Redcap again, this time on the back of its hard skull. Redcaps back at Milo's home (Milo still thought of them as '_real_ Redcaps,' although the one standing in front of him looked — and smelled — pretty damn real) could only be hurt by Cold Iron. However, from what Milo could tell, this world didn't even _have_ Cold Iron, so these Redcaps (in the interests of fairness and balance) must, by Milo's somewhat screwy meta-logic, therefore be without damage reduction. It was a risk Milo figured he had no choice but to take, as the staff did slightly more damage than the dagger and Milo _badly_ needed all the killing power he could get.

"This is _so_ unfair," Milo said, narrowly catching a poorly-aimed blow with his staff. "Clerics get the same number of spells as I do, but they _also _have a good Base Attack Bonus and Armour Proficiencies." The Redcap gave no sign of understanding him, and continued to flail wildly at him. Milo blocked a surprisingly amateurish high attack with his staff. "And even if _that's_ not enough, they can just command armies of undead to go in first."

The Redcap, taking advantage of Milo's now raised staff, slashed him expertly in the stomach through the somewhat unreliable _Robe of Arcane Might_ (leaving Milo with 6 HP).

"And Druids!" Milo said, jabbing the Redcap in the solar plexus with the butt of his staff. "Don't even get me _started_ on Druids. Armour? Hit Points? Good Base Attack Bonus? Full casting?"

The Redcap made another feint, which Milo, now that he'd cottoned on to the Fey's trickery, failed to fall for.

"And failing that, they can have a _wolf_ backing them up!"

Milo swung, but the Redcap rolled to its right with surprising agility for something to wrinkled and ugly.

"And failing _that_," Milo continued his rant uninterrupted, swinging his staff horizontally like a baseball bat and taking the Redcap dead on in the side of the head with a satisfying _thwak_, "they can just _turn into a godsdamned grizzly bear!_"

The Redcap, realizing that Milo had overextended himself, slapped him hard on the wrist with the edge of his blade. Milo dropped the staff as his hand, ignoring frantic orders from his brain, released the polished Darkwood weapon, which the Fey contemptuously kicked off into the snow.

Milo staggered backwards, drawing his dagger with his left hand (by our standards, Milo was more-or-less ambidextrous; although to him the word _Ambidexterity_ meant something completely different) and eyed up the Redcap. By his calculations (assuming this beastie was anything like those he was familiar with), the Redcap had somewhere in the vicinity of three hit points remaining. Milo's dagger, propelled by his scrawny frame, was capable of doing _exactly_ that much damage, assuming he hit.

Well, it was risky... but it _just might work_.

Milo took a deep breath, and, on the exhale, released the dagger in a powerful overhand throw. It spun once, twice, three times, and buried itself to the hilt... in a tree about ten feet from the Redcap.

Unfortunately for Milo, while his 'physics' _did_ run on a number of different story conventions, poor rolls can, and do, happen regardless of dramatic necessity.

The Redcap messily ran Milo through the stomach with his serrated sword.

"Gah!" Milo gasped, suddenly tasting blood. He fell into the deep snow, and tried to scurry away, backards, from his attacker. He got a respectable distance away, leaving a trail of blood, before bumping into a most inconveniently-placed tree.

Milo glanced back at the Redcap, who was, to Milo's disgust, licking Milo's own blood off the edge of his weapon with a long, almost prehensile tongue, making horrible little sounds of delight, as if tasting, for the first time, fine Belgian chocolate.

Milo coughed weakly, spitting blood. He only had one hit point remaining, meaning his wounds weren't exactly physically debilitating — they just hurt like hell.

The Redcap, finally finished with its little snack, looked at Milo with a hungry expression. Throwing his sword to the side carelessly, it ran up to Milo on its stubby little legs. Mordy, hanging onto the creature's legs, bit the Redcap repeatedly on the ankles. Despite himself, Milo grinned. A rat's bite deals a _pathetic_ 1d3 - 4 damage, which, as simple math will tell you, is a maximum of _negative one_.

However, the minimum damage any attack can deal is 1, meaning Mordy was steadily, slowly, from regular attacks and Attacks of Opportunity, gnawing that Redcap's heel to death.

The Redcap's collision with Milo was almost meteoric, and Milo found himself pinned against the tree, the Redcap holding both of his arms down with deceptive wiry strength.

To Milo's revulsion, the Redcap bent down to Milo's stomach and started licking at his open wound with its long, slimy tongue. Milo, who had never really understood the Grapple rules, struggled in vain against the Fey's superior strength.

Any adventurer, other than a Monk, is essentially worthless at unarmed combat. Unarmed Strikes get a massive penalty to hit, deal nonlethal damage (and barely any, at that) and provoke an Attack of Opportunity. Fortunately, from what Milo could tell, nobody had taught the locals about AoO's (which was reasonable enough, as they were bloody confusing). Further, Unarmed Strikes have one thing going for them: they can be made with virtually _any_ part of the body.

Milo's arms and legs were pinned underneath the grotesque little abomination, but his head wasn't.

_THWAK_. Milo headbutted the freak with colossal effort, his skull colliding with the Redcap's hard, leathery head and leaving him seeing stars. The damage was, frankly, negligible; however it was, thanks to Mordy's repeated bites, combined with the beating Milo had given it earlier, enough.

The Redcap toppled over onto the ground, unconscious.

Milo slumped against the tree wearily, his forehead damp with blood from the Redcap's eponymous bloodstained cap, and started laughing weakly. He couldn't help himself.

"And what do Wizards get?" he asked nobody in particular. "A heavy wooden stick, a rat, and phenomenal cosmic power beyond that with which mortal man was meant to tamper. And sometimes, that's enough."

Milo stood up, brushed himself off, and, with a cast of _Mage Hand_ and a casual gesture, pulled his dagger out of the tree. It floated into his hand, as he stumbled over to the Redcap and administered a _coup de grace_ (adventurers are not known for their mercy, especially to things that look like Goblins) and staggered into the makeshift tent.

Hannah gasped when she saw him.

"What _happened_ out there?" she asked. "I was so worried! I thought maybe I should help, but I didn't have my wand, so I couldn't see what I could possibly do. There were shouts, and a weird scream, and sounds of fighting —"

"Redcap," Milo muttered, falling down onto the ground wearily.

"Oh, that's all?" Hannah asked, looking visibly relieved. "Did you drive it off with —"

"Nope," said Milo.

"Well, how about —"

"No dice," Milo said with a groan. "Different magic, remember?"

"Oh. Well, what do you _usually_ do to get rid of Redcaps?"

"Carpet bombing with _Fireballs_ from eight hundred feet away, then toss their teeth — that's all that they leave behind, where I'm from — into the Elemental Plane of Fire to prevent anyone from Raising them. This one, I just used my head."

Hannah gasped.

"You're injured! Pass me my wand, I'll cast Episkey —"

Milo froze. His suspicions were confirmed.

"So you're still in there," Milo said grimly. Hannah stared at him, confused.

"_Hannah_ doesn't know any healing Charms."

Hannah, or whatever was controlling her, froze for a moment.

"Ah," she said finally, and glanced frantically around the shelter like a cornered bobcat.

"So, here's what's going to happen now," Milo said firmly. "I don't care who you are, but I _will_ find out. And when I do, whether you're Snape, Lucius, the ghost of Salazar Slytherin, or bloody Voldemort himself" (Hannah winced at Milo's use of the name, confirming it wasn't the Dark Lord) "I will find you. And I will kill you." Hannah's eyes widened. "This is nonnegotiable."

Hannah stared at Milo briefly, then spoke.

"You foolish, ignorant boy," she said in a cold, low voice. "Just because you can defeat a handful of Death Eaters and a Red Cap doesn't mean you're capable of —"

"You have _no idea_ what I'm capable of," Milo spat. "There are depths to which I will stoop, if necessary, depths which you've never even _dreamed_ of. Tell me," Milo said, his voice low, "have you ever heard of a Candle of Invocation?"

Despite herself, Hannah shook her head.

Milo grinned.

"Pray that you never do, for there lies the path of darkness and Extreme Munchkinry." A Candle of Invocation is a minor Magic Item that helps Clerics concentrate when preparing spells. Its other use allows it to summon extraplanar beings via the _Gate_ spell, including Efreeti, which, while under the summoner's control, can be ordered to grant three _Wishes_ — say, for a permanent +1 Intelligence boost, 25,000 gp, and another Candle of Invocatio_n._ The Candles were prohibited items of Dark Magic in the Azel Empire, and trafficking them was seen as _worse_ than trafficking in human souls. The Empire had an entire task force of high-level Wizards whose sole job was to prevent their use — not that it was necessary, as the gods themselves would step in and simply delete the soul of anyone who attempted to create them before completion. It was one of the few things they all agreed on.

But there was no Azel Empire in this world, and, judging by the lack of Divine Magic, no deities — at least, no active ones.

"With one Candle, I can challenge the _gods_. So here's the deal," Milo said, feeling somewhat numb from loss of blood, "if you leave my friend _now_, and I mean within twelve seconds of when I finish speaking, I won't kill you... until I'm strong enough to do it fairly. If I ever so much as get a _hint_ that you even _touch_ her again, I'll sell my Alignment to the Demon Prince of the Lower Aerial Kingdoms" (Milo was careful not to say his name, for Bad Things could happen) "for a Candle before you can say 'Moral Outrage.' And then I will find you — there's magic that will let me do it _instantly_ — and then I will kill you. _Slowly_. And then I will rip out your soul and trap it in a shiny rock, which I will then hide on a moon — _which_ moon, orbiting which planet, orbiting which star, in which galaxy, I will leave to your imagination — so you can _never_ be brought back." _Greater Teleport_ had no range limitations at all.

Hannah opened her mouth briefly, but Milo cut her off.

"And before you ask, the Demon Prince only answers the summons of Good characters. So that rules you out." _And me_, Milo conveniently forgot to add, _because I'm True Neutral_.

Milo stared at Hannah directly in the eyes, and she stared back.

"I've finished talking. You have twelve seconds. One," Milo counted, and Hannah stared coldly at him.

"Two," said Milo, but Hannah's expression remained unchanged.

"Three." Hannah's gaze intensified, her normally sweet, happy expression twisted into one of contempt.

"Four." Milo briefly wondered if he was going to have to go through with it in the end, and whether Pazuzu was interested in branching out and tempting the souls of Neutrals.

"Five." The flame in the middle of the tent crackled and snapped, tiny glowing embers flying out like a mundane _Glitterdust_.

"Six." Milo readied an action to say 'Pazuzu' three times if he didn't get any sign that Hannah was released from her enslavement within the next round. He was committed now.

"Seven." Hannah's expression wavered slightly for a brief, almost-imperceptible moment.

"Eight." Hannah blinked. Milo suppressed a smile, sure he'd won.

"Nine." Abruptly, Hannah broke into a wicked cackle, made all the more disconcerting because of it was still made with _her_ voice.

"Ten," Milo continued, trying to pretend he was unfazed.

"Eleven." _Ohcrapohcrapohcrapohcrap, I'm going to summon a Demon Prince into this universe... worst Readied Action _ever_, what was I _thinking?

"Twe—" Abruptly, Hannah collapsed from her rigid posture and fell to the ground. Milo heaved a sigh of relief.

"Hannah?" he asked.

"Y-yeah," she said weakly. "It's me again."

"Any chance you can, I dunno, prove it? Maybe?" Milo asked hopefully.

"I d-d-don't _think_ so, but you _have_ to believe me... I'm so _sorry_..."

_Eh, so much for that idea_.

"What the _Hells_ is happening?" he asked.

"Dunno... it's like I could hear this voice, giving me these suggestions... and they seemed like _such _a good idea at the time and it made me _so happy_ to follow them..." she shuddered. "I'm _so sorry_, I tried to _kill you_." She started crying.

"What? No you didn't," Milo said. "That's absurd. You were possessed, obviously. Otherwise, _Protection from Evil_ wouldn't have helped."

"Wh-what?" she asked.

"Just trust me on this one. I'd bet you didn't even know _how_ to cast those curses you were sending at me, right?"

"N-no..."

"There you have it. We're safe, caloo calay," Milo collapsed back to the ground. He hadn't even noticed when it had happened, but at some point during the staring contest he'd gone to a crouching position (standing up would be all but impossible in the confines of Milo's crude shelter).

"A-are you alright?" Hannah asked. "You look kind of... drenched in blood."

"You should see the other guy," Milo muttered, his eyes closed.

"But seriously," she said, her voice starting to come back to her. "You need help at _least _as much as I do... what are we going to do?" she asked, panic evidently rising.

Milo laughed.

"Me? I'll be fine. I can just sleep off anything short of death, trust me. Which is more than I can say for that Redcap outside."

"There's a — wait, what was it you said earlier? I wasn't really... all there. There was something about a Red Cap."

"Uh. Yeah, I think it smelled your blood... erm. Sorry about that, by the way, I didn't know it was you."

"_The Red Cap,_" Hannah pressed, "did you... I mean, is it... did you kill it?"

"Uh. Yeah, I made pretty sure of that."

"And it's right outside?"

"Yeah, but trust me, it's not going _anywhere_."

"_Bury it!_"

"Oh, _come on_, it's just some random monster —"

"Don't you _ever_ listen in Defence? They're attracted by spilled blood!"

"Yeah, I know that. But I don't see... oh."

"Get out there and bury it before it attracts more!"

"Don't have to tell me twice... er, three times," Milo said, getting to his feet with a wince, and crawled out of the improvised tent.

He stumbled over to the dead Redcap, grabbing his fallen quarterstaff on the way. He groaned, using it as an improvised shovel.

"This is the worst," he muttered to the Redcap. "The absolute _worst_. I mean, you're dead, but you've got it lucky," he said between jabs with his staff to loosen up the snow. "It's like, practically Frostfell conditions out here, and I decided to make my bloody robes resistant to bloody_ heat_. And now I've got to dig a great, bloody big _hole _in the ground for _you_, and believe me, the less time I spend around _you_ the better." After every good dig with his staff, he reached down and pulled out handfuls of snow.

"And you know what the _worst_ part is?" he asked the corpse. "No, I guess you don't, 'cause you're dead. The absolute _worst_ part is that, right now, you know what would actually help? The damn _bucket_." Milo scooped another handful of the freezing snow out of the quickly-growing pit. "Been carrying it around in my pocket for _three years_ and when, for once, I actually need it, it's in bloody Chateau Canvas keeping _someone else warm_ while I'm out here digging a big _hole_ in the ground, and did I _mention_ how cold it is?"

Fortunately, the ex-Redcap wasn't very large, and snow is much easier to dig in than dirt. It took him about an hour to finish, but when he had, Milo unceremoniously pushed the little monstrosity into the pit face-first. As an afterthought, he threw the thing's weird little sword in after it, then piled in several feet of snow.

"And good riddance, too," he muttered. "Ain't nobody gets to lick me and walk away from it." With that, he trudged back into the (what could charitably be called a) tent.

Milo stumbled back inside again, and fell face down, immediately drifting off into sleep.

He wasn't quite sure how long he was out for, but when he woke up, the fire had burned low and the sun had gone down. At some point, someone had either _Animated_ his Winter Blanket, or Hannah had put it on him.

"Happy Christmas, Hannah," he said wearily.

"Happy Christmas, Milo," Hannah replied, sounding just as tired. Her stomach rumbled. "Hey, I don't suppose you still have any of those Everlasting Rations?"

"Nah, they ran out weeks ago," Milo responded automatically.

"What, really?"

Milo sighed and passed the blue bag over to her, trying very hard not to roll his eyes.

Hannah took a bite.

"It's... completely tasteless," she said. "That's so weird."

"It's all I've got," he confessed. "Unless you want five pounds of garlic powder."

Milo frowned. Something Ron had said was coming back to him.

"What's Christmas Dinner?" he asked curiously, stoking the fire in an unsuccessful attempt to get it to pick up a bit.

Hannah explained in great detail, lovingly describing the wonders of roast beef, mashed potatoes thickly covered in gravy with carrots and peas on the side and a salad for dad, 'cause of his Cholesterol. Her eyes glazed over somewhat, and Milo was briefly worried that she'd again come, again, under the effects of the Possessor.

"Pass that back for a second," Milo said, gesturing at the Everlasting Rations.

Hannah, looking surprised, complied.

Milo has, in the past, gone on at length about the uses and abuses of _Prestidigitation_, which, despite the fact that it's used by novice arcanists for practice, he firmly believed ought to be renamed '_Least Wish_.' Among its many uses, which have saved Our Hero's hide a number of times, are the ability to soil or clean a large area (which comes in very handy during Milo's many detentions spent cleaning the thousands of Hogwarts statues and armour), move about a pound of material, recolour objects (or, of course, potions), create flimsy little objects — or change something's taste for up to one hour.

"_Prestidigitation_," Milo cast. It was his last, best spell.

He passed the Rations back to Hannah, who looked confused.

"Try it now," he urged.

Hannah took a bite of the granola-like rations, and her eyes widened.

"It tastes just like..." she paused mid-sentence to take another bite. "Like..." Hannah said again, but seemed at a loss for words.

"Christmas Dinner?" Milo suggested.

"Exactly," Hannah voiced her agreement.

"Beautiful. Now pass some here, I'm _starving_."


	19. Chapter 19: Visitors

Author's Notes: As promised, Bonus Chapter!

EDIT: A helpful reviewer pointed out that in Britain, people say "anyway" instead of "anyways," something of which I had no idea. There's no way I'm going to be able to get all of the local slang and things right, but nevertheless, I went back and edited as many instances of those which I could find. Milo, coming from another world (which the fates have decided, extremely conveniently it would seem, speaks Canadian English) still says adds the "s." If I make any dialect-related slipups like that in the future, feel free to PM me (or drop it in a review, of course, but PM's are somewhat less embarrassing).

It's just another thing like Wizard/wizard and Red Cap/Redcap that distinguishes Milo from the locals.

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

Deciding that saying something 'tastes like Christmas Dinner' would be categorically impossible for a Dark Wizard utilizing their titular Dark Powers to mentally control an injured eleven-year-old girl, Milo had relented and returned Hannah's wand in order for her to magic up some fire to warm their freezing tent.

It was late — Milo wasn't sure _how_ late, because his nap of unknown length had thrown his perception even of passing rounds and the sun went down _very_ early this far north in the dead of winter — when they heard yet _another_ audible crunch in the snow outside, waking Milo up from a deep sleep he hadn't quite realized he'd ever started.

Milo cursed (figuratively speaking — not a literal Curse. Milo briefly wondered if _that_ was the reason the locals seemed to use the word 'cuss') under his breath, and not only because there was a decent probability that the Redcap's (or "Red Cap" as the locals called them) buddies had come to finish what the first one had started (or, perhaps, to finish off the first one, _yum_). He required eight hours of continuous, _uninterrupted_ rest to prepare new spells and regain hit points, so his injuries (which would have certainly killed someone from Hannah's world) were _exactly_ as painful and sore as they were however long ago it had been since they'd been inflicted.

Milo glanced over at Hannah, whose eyes were wide and alert.

_Well, we're screwed_, he thought.

Milo, as stealthily as he could (which is not, admittedly, particularly stealthy without any ranks in Hide or Move Silently), pulled his quarterstaff out of his _Belt of Hidden Pouches_ and raised the tent flap very slightly. Unfortunately, he couldn't see anything but snow from his narrow window.

"Stay here," Milo said quietly to Hannah. "I'll go see what's outside."

Hannah, her face pale and ashen, became determined.

"No," she whispered. "I've got a wand, and I can do magic, which is more than I can say for you."

"But —" Milo said, a hundred protests coming to mind. _You're not a PC. Your injuries are debilitating, mine are not. You're lower level. The spells you know are not combat optimized._

But despite everything, the practical part of his mind agreed she _did_ have a point. Hannah, despite being a novice at magic, had no limit on spells per day and even the simple Jinxes and Hexes that Hogwarts students used on each other to settle heated disagreements would be more effective than a quarterstaff wielded at a measly +2 BAB and a -1 Strength Penalty — at least, when used in the number that Hannah was capable of, which was infinite.

"Fine, we'll go together," he said at last. "On three, we leap out of the tent and catch them by surprise — try to stay behind me, my robes are enchanted to protect me. I'll club anything that gets close, you hex anything that moves." Milo couldn't _believe_ he was volunteering to tank damage so someone else could cast. It was just so_, so _wrong.

"Okay," Hannah said, fear and excitement battling evident in almost equal parts in her voice.

"And remember — you're braver than you think."

"I'm braver than I think. I'm braver than I think," Hannah said, constantly repeating the words under her breath as she did in the Sorting Ceremony.

"One... Two..." Milo took a deep breath. "_Three!_"

The two heavily injured spellcasters did not so much _charge_ out of the tent, which would have been, perhaps, more dramatically appropriate, as they did stagger out painfully. They were a pretty pathetic sight, and the only foes they would have intimidated would be those who were both squeamish about blood and who were in possession of excellent night vision.

To the heroes in question, however, it felt as if they were leading the charge in the Battle of Vienna, with the might of tens of thousands of heavily armed and armoured elite cavaliers at their back, all thirsting for blood.

"_WAAAAAAAGH!_"

"Wha' in the ruddy hell?" came a surprised, thickly accented voice from the chill darkness.

"Mister Hagrid?" Hannah asked, stunned.

"_Dancing Lights_," Milo cast, while Hannah cast Lumos. Four glowing white spheres of light shot out of Milo's hands, flying in a search pattern around their immediate vicinity while Hannah's wand tip glowed brightly. Hagrid's huge body came into clear view, holding his crossbow in one hand and Fang's leash in another.

"Wha' are _you _lot doin' out here?" Hagrid asked. "And is tha' — is tha' _blood?_"

Milo narrowed his eyes.

"How do I know you're _really_ Hagrid?" he asked suspiciously, leaning heavily on his quarterstaff.

"Wha' kinda question is tha'?" Hagrid asked. "Yeh know another bloke o' my size who jus' happens ter have a crossbow an' a dog?"

"I think," Hannah said quietly to Milo, "that we'd best trust him. He's kind of our only hope."

Milo still stared at him suspiciously, trying to decide what _he_ would do if he had the ability to simply possess people — something he didn't, as he'd forsworn the Enchantment school altogether when he specialized in Conjuration. Presumably, powerful wizards and witches had some form of defence against mental intrusion — otherwise, Dumbledore would long since have been turned into a puppet of some Dark Wizard and used to rule the world. Likely, that ruled McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick, and Quirrell out as well as potential puppets (although, not as suspects necessarily. Milo needed another glance at his Plot flowchart just to remind himself _who_ was currently trying to kill him). Hagrid, who apparently had no magical power of his own at all, was therefore an obvious choice to possess... at least, at first glance. If Milo were behind this, he'd simply choose another student. Obviously, the possessor was able to force his puppets to use spells the puppets would normally be unable to, which essentially bumped up any possessed student to Dark Master level of threat.

So, assuming his possessor had, in fact, any brains at all (and Milo's numerous assumptions were correct), Hagrid was probably just Hagrid.

"Okay," Milo said. "But be careful."

"Now, can someone explain wha' the ruddy hell is goin' on? Actually, nevermind tha'," Hagrid said, looking closer at the extent of Hannah's and Milo's injuries. "We gotta get yeh up ter the hospital wing. Can yeh walk? Ah, nevermind, I'll jus' carry yeh. Yeh can explain on the way."

Hagrid hung his crossbow from a strap on his shoulder, and held out a big, meaty hand to Hannah and Milo. Neither he nor Hannah had the same level of friendship with Hagrid that Harry (and, to a lesser extent, Ron and Hermione) had developed, and the pair of them hesitated for a moment.

Milo shrugged and climbed aboard, Hannah soon following suit.

Hagrid carried the pair of them in a surprisingly gentle manner, given his somewhat brutish appearance. On the way, Milo decided he might as well tell Hagrid what happened. Hannah, however, was being unusually silent.

"This morning, I heard that Hannah went out into the snow —"

"_Are yeh mad, girl?_" Hagrid asked Hannah.

"Sorry," Hannah said in a quiet voice.

"Hang on Hagrid, it wasn't her idea. I went out after her —"

"_Why_ didn' yeh jus' tell Dumbledore? Or McGongall?" Hagrid asked.

"Er..." Milo said. Why hadn't he told anyone? In hindsight, what he'd done seemed remarkably stupid. "Anyways, I tracked her down with magic, eventually, but she tried to hex me."

"Why would yeh do tha'?" Hagrid asked. "Ruddy bad manners, if yeh ask me."

"Wasn't her choice, Hagrid," Milo said again, patiently. "she was being controlled by magic, or something."

"_What?_" Hagrid asked, and stopped moving. "Are yeh _sure?_"

"Oh, pretty sure alright," Milo said, Hannah's horrible, uncaring expression coming back to mind.

"We have ter tell Dumbledore," Hagrid said, and started moving again, this time at a greatly increased pace. Milo carried on, explaining about the encounter with the Redcap.

"Why didn' yer jus' use —" Hagrid began.

"Uh," Milo interrupted, not wanting to go into details about how he was a different sort of wizard. "Never quite got a hang of that spell."

"Well, wha' abou' —"

"Nope, nor that one."

"Yeh really gotta do more practicin'," Hagrid urged. "Them's _ruddy_ simple spells."

"Yeah... I'll do that."

"An' the Redcap's wha' hurt Hannah?" Hagrid asked, wading through the snow as if it wasn't there.

Milo fell silent for a moment, at a loss for words. The terrible fear he'd felt when he'd first realized who his attacker was returned like a defeated Dark Wizard with access to the _Clone_ spell.

"Yes," Hannah said. "Used Milo's knife on me. Fortunately Milo knows a bit of Muggle medicine, or..." she trailed off, and fell back into silence.

"Firs' sensible thing yeh did all day," Hagrid said critically. "An' I'll be havin' a word with Flitwick. Healin' Charms ought ter be on the curriculum; ruddy useful, they are. Er. Not tha' I know firsthand, o' course."

"So," Milo said, wanting to press through this next awkward bit as quickly as possible, "I, er, killed the Redcap."

"Though' yeh said yeh didn' have yer wand?"

"I used a big stick."

"The other Red Caps aren' gonna like tha'," Hagrid said, concerned. "Bu' it explains Fang."

"Oh?" Milo asked, curious.

"Bou' a half hour ago, he made a righ' racket, so I let him out. Must've smelled its blood — Red Caps have a very distinct scent, yeh know. Led me righ' ter yeh. Migh' a' saved yer lives."

"That's... very convenient," Milo said, looking at the dog. Suspicions started to grow in his mind, but he shook them off — surely he was just being paranoid, seeing puppeteering behind every shadow. _Besides_, he thought, _why would the Dark Wizard have possessed the dog to help _save _me? Whoever it was clearly wanted me dead._

_Unless..._

Milo's brow furrowed, lost deep in thought despite the freezing cold and rumblings from Hagrid, who was still chastising them for being reckless.

_Could it have been reconnaissance? _Milo wondered. _Did someone attack me just to find out how I'd fight back? Hannah _did _open up with Stunners, I think — although, why they're called Stunners, I have no idea, as they leave the target Unconscious, not merely Stunned — although she did fire off a number of Killing Curses as well..._

_And in any case, if someone wants to find out how I fight, it can only be because they plan on fighting me themselves. Meaning they want me dead. Meaning they would have just left me to, hopefully, expire in the cold._

Something still felt wrong, though, although Milo couldn't quite figure out what it was.

_Regardless of their intentions_, Milo thought, _I may have revealed my hand. They saw _Glitterdust_, _Grease, _and _Summon Monster III_. They'll probably have worked out a counter to them by the time they challenge me in person _— and _they know about my last-ditch contingency plan... _Milo cursed himself. _Which can easily be countered by preventing me from speaking. And in any case, _Gating_ in enough Efreeti to _Wish _myself into omnipotence would take minutes or hours, so is effectively impossible in the middle of a combat._

_So_, Milo thought as Hagrid carried him and Hannah to safety, _what would I do to kill me, given what I'd know about myself and the local magic?_

The answer was surprisingly simple.

_Surprise attack with an Avada Kedavra loaded with as many Attack Bonus-boosting buffs possible._

To which the only defence was... what? To anticipate the attack? To not be there to begin with? _Death Ward_ would counter the Killing Curse, but it was a Cleric spell. _Nerveskitter_ would help him win on Initiative, but that wouldn't do much if the attacker had a Surprise Round.

Milo needed to have a good, long look at his spellbooks to determine what, if anything, he could do to counter such an attack.

A loud creak broke Milo out of his train of thought. With a start, Milo realized that they were already at the castle, and Hagrid had just pushed the main door open with his shoulder. Hagrid wasted no time carrying them up the stairs to the hospital wing, which Milo was starting to think of as a second home.

The giant groundskeeper rapped hard on the doors until Pomfrey, still in her dressing gown, opened it sleepily. She took one look at the children and sighed.

"What did he do _this_ time?" she asked (Milo resented, somewhat, the implied accusation that it had been his fault — until he remembered that Hannah's injuries actually _had_ been by his hand), but despite the exasperation evident in her tone, she had them lying down on the firm cots and checked over in record time — after shooing out Hagrid, that is, who didn't mind as he was leaving anyways to go find Dumbledore.

She gasped when she saw the extent of their injuries.

"What _happened_ to you?" she asked Hannah. Then, after thinking a moment, added "No, nevermind. Dumbledore will sort that out later; don't say anything." A few Healing Charms later and Hannah was out of the worst of it, albeit still exhausted and sore.

"And as for _you_," she said, turning back to Milo, "I think all _you_ need is bandages, a Cleaning Charm to stave off infection, and prolonged bedrest, based on your rather _numerous_ prior visits to my hospital wing." The truth was, though she didn't say anything, that she was afraid to do anything else — she lay awake at night in a cold sweat caused by wondering what the _hell_ the reason was behind his physiology, especially his apparent super healing powers.

"But —" Milo protested.

"No buts. Now if you excuse me, I believe I'm shortly going to have to fend off the Headmaster, and it always helps to have a certain measure of mental preparation before attempting so daunting a task. You two just try and get some sleep."

The strict little mediwitch bustled off, muttering under her breath about how people never seem to require emergency medical attention at a _reasonable_ hour, showing no consideration whatsoever. That left Milo and Hannah alone in the dark hospital wing (with the exception of the gently snoring Neville Longbottom, who had broken several ribs when Peeves had dropped a bust of some old, long forgotten headmaster on him. As it turned out, Peeves _had_ actually, as far as anyone could tell, dropped it by accident. Go figure.)

"So," Milo started saying to break the awkward silence. "How about that local sports te—"

"Why did you go looking for me?" Hannah asked. Then she paused for a moment. "I mean, before you knew I was out in the snow. Agh, you know what I mean."

"Right!" said Milo, who felt sort of dumb. "What time is it?" There was a clock on the wall, but he still couldn't make heads or tails of all the numbers.

"Uh," Hannah said, momentarily thrown. "It's, uh, 11:54. But what does —"

"So, it's still Christmas?" he asked.

"Yeah, for six — no, wait, make that five minutes."

"Awesome," Milo said, visibly relieved. "Okay, hang on a second, I need to find something." Sifting through the many pockets of his Belt of Hidden Pouches (technically, he could just hold his hand over it and order the belt to spit out whichever item inside that he wanted, but he wanted to stay out of the habit of doing things that way to prevent from announcing to the world what he was about to draw), he eventually found the small package he was looking for.

"I had a lot of difficulty with this," Milo admitted. "See, where I'm from, we don't really give presents very frequently. People, well, Adventurers are least, tend to hoard their money and treasure and wouldn't dream of parting with it for anything. When we _get_ presents, it's usually for, I dunno, rescuing the Prince's sister from bandits or clearing out a cave of Orcs. We tend to ignore holidays, and, frankly, I don't know what the NPCs do during them. So I'm kind of new to this whole Christmas thing; it's... bizarre. So I asked around, and from what I understand, most people buy something from shopkeepers that they think the recipient would enjoy. I tried that, at first, but ran into a number of difficulties — anything I wanted, I'd have to owl order, obviously, because there aren't any shops in Hogwarts. But also... this world is _strange_. I don't understand what any of the local wizarding stuff is or does, most of the time, so I wouldn't know what to buy or even where to _look_ for what to buy. Back in Azel, there's strict price and production controls and _everybody_ knows exactly what's for sale everywhere and that a bucket will _always_ go for five Silver Pieces. They're posted in the Equipment Lists. And don't even get me _started_ on the Muggle stuff; it's more foreign to me than Psionics."

Hannah stared at him oddly, apparently not understanding some of the terminology but, generally speaking, getting the gist.

"You didn't have to... I mean, you shouldn't have worried about it."

"I was led to believe it was important," he shrugged. "Anyways, I came to the conclusion fairly quickly that if I was going to get you a present, I'd have to make it myself. The thing is, mundane stuff — er, non-magical, that is — can, from what I can tell, be made by Muggles better and faster than anything I could pull off, even if I used magic to help. But what I _can_ make, and I'm pretty good at it, is Magic Items."

"But, that sounds really expensive..."

"Eh," Milo shrugged. "I've got ways of making money fast, if I need to. That wasn't the _big_ problem."

"What was the big problem?" Hannah asked riveted.

"Every single Magic Item — and I mean _every_ Magic Item that has _ever_ been designed — is for killing, or in some manner facilitating the killing of, Goblins and Dragons and things. That, or for carrying their stuff away afterwards. Any other use is largely the result of happy accident or complete afterthought. And killing Goblins isn't something that you seem particularly interested in," Milo said, as if the notion was both unthinkable and unpleasant, "so I had to see if I could twist the purpose of already existing Magic Items for more... civilian" (Milo was about to say 'NPC,' but stopped himself at the last second) "purposes. And there were a few that could do that — I mean, this Belt of Hidden Pouches I have would be handy for _anyone_, right? Same with a Magic Bedroll or _maybe_ a bag of Everlasting Rations." Milo paused for a moment. "Something with _Endure Elements_, now that I think about it, probably would have been a good idea. But anyways, everything I found, even then, required spells only available to Clerics or Druids or whatever. Wizards are usually... a bit more on the offensive side of things."

"Look, it's totally fine if you didn't get me anything," Hannah said quietly. "I wouldn't have minded."

"So, the list of already designed Magic Items exhausted, I realized I had to design something from scratch, so I turned to the spells I _did_ know to see what I could do. I had... similar problems. To a somewhat lesser extent, a Wizard's spells are almost _all_ designed for combat; even the utility ones are mostly to help a Wizard get to — or, knowing Wizards, _away_ from — combat. There was nothing that seemed particularly... _fun_," Milo said the last word as if it were from an unfamiliar foreign language. "So, I said, 'screw it!'" (Milo's actual wording, which he wisely decided not to repeat to Hannah, was somewhat different from this) "'I'll do what an Adventurer does best and combine spells that were never designed to be combined, gosh darn it!' And this, your present, is the result. But before I give it to you, I need an answer to a very important question."

"What's that?" Hannah asked, looking somewhat surprised.

"What's your favourite animal?" Milo asked.

Hannah thought about it for a moment.

"Hamsters," she said. "Definitely hamsters."

"Okay," Milo said. "Cool. Just one second." Milo had left, literally, one second in the Magic Item crafting process unfinished when he'd originally made the item right before Christmas Eve. The result was the he could, at this point, still change any of the variables that had to be decided 'during item creation.' "Now, here you are, Hannah Abbot," Milo passed her the present, wrapped in festive-looking holiday paper. "Happy Christmas."

"Thank you," she said, accepting the package and, not being one of those fussy people who simply remove the tape and leave the paper unblemished, tore the wrapping paper to pieces from the middle outwards in about a third of a second. Then she gasped. Inside, in a tiny box, was a tiny, fine (admittedly, somewhat lopsided looking) fragile-looking silver lily that could be attached to clothes by means of a minute pin on the back of the stem. An actual silversmith would shudder at the sight of Milo's somewhat crude handiwork, but, all told, it was pretty well done given that Milo didn't actually have in ranks in any form of Craft.

"I made it by heating up a Sickle until it was malleable enough to sculpt," Milo said. "Couldn't have done it without those dragonhide gloves we have for Herbology and Potions."

"It's beautiful," Hannah said, somewhat breathless. No doubt her perceptions were somewhat addled by her traumatic day, sleep deprivation, and whatever was in the potions that Pomfrey had prescribed for her, as the silver lily was could only be described as beautiful when using the loosest _possible_ sense of the word.

Milo shrugged, somewhat embarrassed.

"That's not really the point," he admitted. In truth, he'd made it out of silver so it could be used as an improvised weapon against Devils if necessary (it never hurts to be prepared, after all) but Milo decided, for some reason, against saying so at that precise moment. "If you tap it and say 'I'm bored,' it'll — actually, just tap it and say that you're bored and you'll see."

Looking at Milo curiously, Hannah complied.

"I'm bored," she said, tapping the silver pin.

Nothing happened.

"Oh, right, you have to be wearing it first," Milo said. "Forgot about that part."

Hannah, looking extremely curious, pinned the lily to the front of her robes.

"I'm bored," she repeated, with another tap. Suddenly, a small, fluffy, _impossibly_ cute — in fact, almost sickeningly so — brown and white hamster appeared in her hands. "It's so _cute!_" Hannah squealed in the manner of little girls everywhere as the hamster scurried up her arm, chirping in a manner that would make _real_ hamsters feel like they had to go and watch _Die Hard_ while doing one-handed push-ups just to counter the sheer _adorability_. The hamster didn't have fat so much as it had _pudge_, fur so much as it had fluff, or eyes so much as it had big, glassy, shiny windows to your very soul. Simply seeing it required a Will save, or you were _compelled_ to want to hug it (okay, not really, but it may as well have).

Milo was particularly proud about his little invention, which was simply a tricked-out Wondrous Item of _Unseen Servant_ and _Minor Image_ (both of which he had had to research specifically for this task) and a little _Detect Thoughts_. The _Servant_, which was a formless, invisible blob capable of moving around and exerting a limited amount of force, was surrounded with an illusory body of an animal chosen during item creation (in this case, a hamster), the specifics of which were chosen by using a brief _Detect Thoughts_-like effect on the pin's first user to find the form that user would find to be maximally cute. The _Servant_ was then ordered to play with the user until dismissed, unless otherwise commanded.

"This," Hannah said, the hamster running up her arm to the shoulder, "is the best Christmas present _ever_."

"Thank you! Er, or you're welcome. I'm not actually sure which is applicable here," he admitted.

"I believe both are perfectly acceptable," Hannah said, stifling a laugh.

"You just tap the pin and say 'Bye' and it'll go away until you reactive it," Milo explained. "It can do other stuff, if you tell it to, like carry or clean things."

"Things like Hogwarts statues?" Hannah asked eagerly.

"Things _exactly_ like Hogwarts statues," Milo said.

"Thank you," Hannah said again. "Really. I mean it, you clearly put a lot of effort into this. I was just going to get you a big pack of Every Flavoured Beans, 'cause of how much you enjoyed them on Hallowe'en, but now —"

"_Every Flavoured Beans?!_" Milo's face broke into a huge smile. "I _love_ those things."

Hannah hesitated for a second.

"Okay, then I'll still get you a big pack of Every Flavoured Beans. I've got them up in the girls' dorm... I didn't give them to you already, because, er... well. It doesn't matter now, actually." _She must mean the week or so she wasn't talking to me 'cause I asked her about the lake_, Milo thought_. People are strange._ "You can have them in the morning."

"Sweet," Milo said.

"No pun intended?" Hannah asked.

Milo groaned.

"Bye, hamster," Hannah said, tapping the pin, and the impossible cute critter vanished. Hannah hesitated for a moment, then said "I'd go over and give you a hug, or something," she looked somewhat embarrassed, "except that I don't think my legs really want to respond."

"That's okay," Milo said, feeling somewhat awkward. "I'll take a rain cheque."

"Good, good," Hannah said, and an awkward silence, punctured only by Neville's calm and consistent snoring, descended for a beat or three as Milo decided there was absolutely _nothing_ more fascinating than his fingernails and Hannah examined the pin.

"So, how about —" Milo said, while Hannah said "I think we should —" at the same time. They both, then, paused for the other to continue.

"You go first," they said simultaneously. They both looked around the room, for a while, waiting for the other to continue.

"I was going to say we should maybe go to sleep," Hannah said.

"Same," agreed Milo.

"Okay, goodnight!" she said, and rolled over to face away from him.

"Goodnight."

_People are weird_, Milo thought again — and not for the last time, at that — and rolled over to do the same.

o—o—o—o

"So, you have defeated my minions!" Thamior the Thaumaturge spat, reaching for his pouch of fell spell components. "But — do you really think you can challenge _me_? You _fools_! For it is _I_, the Dread Ma —"

"Wait — Thamior?" Milo said as his companions reached for their weapons, "I'm confused."

"That is only natural, seeing as how you are a fool, fool!"

"It's just that I thought Thamior was a male name," Milo said, his tone kept carefully neutral.

"Which is fitting, seeing as how I am, in fact, male," Thamior said, slightly confused — and evidently irritated at being interrupted in the middle of his monologue.

"But you're an Elf," Milo said.

"You have a talent for stating the obvious, fool! Unfortunately, it won't help you avoid joining my Legion of the Da—"

"But I thought there weren't any Elf males?"

"You will pay for your insolence!" the purple-cloaked Thamior shouted, his eyes glowing red. "When I am god-emperor of all the multiverse, I will – wait, what's going on?"

Milo felt a strange tingling sensation somewhere in his midriff, gradually growing to encompass his torso. In a panic, he looked down to find that, where his stomach should be, there was a slowly growing sphere of darkness, occasionally crackling with what looked like green lightning.

"Gah!" Milo said, the sphere growing to reach his neck. "What did you — how did — _I won Initiative_, damnit! This isn't fair!" but Thamior looked just as surprised as Milo felt, and was backing away slowly from him.

There was a brief flash of blindingly bright light, and Milo suddenly felt cold all over. His lungs strained painfully, trying futilely to find air, and his brain screamed at him that things were very, _very_ wrong. Gravity seemed to tug at him inconsistently in every direction, before finally agreeing to pull him backwards. He struggled, swinging his arms wildly to try and find something solid, anything, until...

—_Thud_—

Milo sat bolt upright clutching his side where just a moment before, the sphere of blackness had begun to grow. To his surprise, he realized both his hands were wrapped around his Belt of Hidden Pouches.

He looked around, expecting danger, but saw instead only the depressingly familiar sights of the Hogwarts hospital wing. He blinked, realizing it was only a dream... and a weirdly vivid one, at that. Milo couldn't, this time, speak from experience, but from what he'd heard from other Adventurers, dreams that were more like flashbacks were always important to the plot. The only thing was, in this case, he couldn't figure for the life of him how this could be so.

Milo wasn't sure how long he was staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what the Hells was going on, what had brought him here, and just what the significance of his dream was when he realized he wasn't alone. (Well, he _knew_ he wasn't alone — Neville's rumbling snores, unfortunately, made sure of that. Also, Hannah. Okay, he _obviously_ wasn't alone. What Milo _meant_ to think was that there was someone else, _awake_, in the hospital wing with him. You _could_ consider cutting him some slack, of course, seeing as how he just woke up).

"Professor?" Milo asked curiously.

"M-Milo," Professor Quirrell, standing by the door, stammered. "I w-was just checking in on y-y-you, to s-s-see if you would b-be up for the D-Duelling C-Club on Sunday."

"That's..." Milo did some rapid arithmetic. "Four days from now? Definitely. I'll be up and about by tomorrow."

"I-indeed?" Quirrell asked, surprised. "Y-your injuries l-look m-m-most severe. I s-s-see the good M-Madam P-P-Pomfrey has opted n-not to use m-magic on you?"

Milo shrugged painfully.

"I can heal anything short of death in about a day, if I have help. I think Pomfrey's afraid of how your magic will interact with my... well, with me, I guess."

"W-well," Quirrell said, glancing at the clock. "I'm afraid that I h-have to r-r-run; the D-Doxies in the d-d-dungeon won't ch-chase themselves out. I w-wish you a speedy r-r-recovery, and, to that end, left y-you a present," Quirrell gestured at a box of Chocolate Frogs on Milo's bedside table. "G-goodbye."

"Erm. Bye! Thanks," Milo said. The DADA professor walked out of the room at about a half-step faster than normal walking speed, presumably to avoid a lecture from Pomfrey. Milo waited for the door to close behind him, then turned to the frogs.

"_Detect Poison_," he cast, just in case. When they turned out to be clean, he stashed them in his Belt for later. Milo glanced at the heavy mechanical clock on the wall, noting that, while he could tell that the little hand was pointed at just past the six and the big hand was pointing at the three, he had no idea what that was supposed to mean. Deciding it didn't really matter one way or the other, Milo figured he ought to just go back to sleep.

Only a few minutes passed before Milo heard the door creak open.

"Back, Professor?" Milo asked, sitting up despite his protesting muscles and various grievous wounds.

"Front, Student?" came an aged, grandfatherly voice.

"Headmaster?" Milo asked, genuinely surprised, as Dumbledore walked calmly up to his bed, dressed in his signature purple robes and half-moon spectacles. "I thought Madam Pomfrey —"

"What the good mediwitch said to me was, in fact, and I quote, 'you won't be bothering any of my patients _tonight_, Headmaster, Supreme Mugwump or no.' As it is, in fact, now the morning and not, in fact, the night, her prohibition is no longer in effect." Dumbledore paused for a moment. "But, ah, it is entirely possible that she would not, in fact, see eye-to-eye on my interpretation of her command, so if you would be so good as to keep your voice down...?"

"Sure," Milo responded quietly. "What brings you here? And, more importantly, why did you say 'Front, Student?'"

"I was taking, as it were, a shot in the dark at what I had guessed — incorrectly, as it would appear — might be a social custom from your homeland. You see, you said, 'Back, Professor,' so I thought that, perhaps, the correct response was to, as is the custom among a small tribe of Merfolk living in a pond in Kashmir, to say the precise _opposite_. Alas, as is so often the case when one ventures into the murky grounds of speculation, I was incorrect. And as to your first question, I am here, as you can surely guess, to question you about the events of yesterday."

"Oh, that. It's fairly straightforward," Milo said, and gave Dumbledore a rather more accurate version of the story than the one he gave Hagrid (lying to Dumbledore's face seemed, to Milo, about on par with kicking a Lantern Archon). To his credit, Dumbledore sat patiently, listening to the entire story through until the end before asking questions.

"— and then Fang led Hagrid to us, and he carried us back to the castle," Milo finished. "Speaking of which, I'm going to need to go back at some point to get my rope and stuff. Made by Elves, you know." Or at least the sign had said so. In truth, it was hard to find rope _anywhere_ that wasn't claimed to have been made by Elves.

"By Elves? One day, when we both are free from the constant pressings of urgent business, I would greatly enjoy listening to you tell me all about the strange land from which you hail. But, until then, some much briefer answers to more specific questions will have to suffice. First, could you explain to me _exactly_ what the effects are of the Charm you cast on Hannah to free her from the effects of her mental control?"

"Sure," Milo said. "_Protection From Evil_. Right now, it lasts up to five minutes, but I can push that to seven with these gloves," Milo held up his gloved hands, wiggling his fingers somewhat, "and for the duration, the target can't be affected by any form of mental control. When the spell ends, the control starts up again. Also, they can't be touched by summoned non-Good monsters."

"Fascinating," Dumledore said. "That little spell of yours would have saved the Ministry a great deal of trouble over the years."

"May I counter with a question of my own?" Milo asked.

"Of course you may," Dumbledore said, "but whether I shall answer or not is, I am afraid, another matter entirely. I can promise this: everything I say shall be the unblemished truth."

"Can you tell me how Hannah was being controlled, who did it, where they live, and how well protected they are?"

Dumbledore laughed softly.

"That was four questions, you realize, and I am afraid that I am only able to answer the first. I cannot be sure until I question Miss Abbot directly, of course, but I am quite certain that she was the unfortunate victim of one of the darkest forms of magic known. You already have, unfortunately, witnessed the use of the most terrible of the three Unforgivable Curses, the Killing Curse." Milo nodded. It was the first spell he'd seen cast by the wizards of this world, in fact. "The curses are so-called because the use of one on a human being is enough to warrant a life's sentence in Azkaban, the wizard prison. Normally, the specifics of the Unforgivables are not learned until a student's Sixth Year, but in your case, I fear you may well be in danger without being forewarned. Along with the Killing Curse are the Cruciatus Curse, which causes extreme pain in its victim, and the Imperius Curse. This last one, despite being the most pleasant for the unfortunate victim, has caused more disasters, deaths, and crises than the other two put together, directly or indirectly. The Imperius curse allows direct mental control over the target for, if necessary, years at a time. Used by a skilled wizard or witch, is almost impossible to detect and even harder to resist."

"You mean, it doesn't allow a Will Save?" Milo asked, incredulous. Such a spell was too powerful to _exist_.

"I'm afraid I don't altogether understand the question," Dumbledore admitted. "Who is Will, and why does he need saving?"

"Uh," Milo said. "I mean, it can't be fought off with strength of will alone?"

"Oh, it is _possible_," Dumbledore conceded, "but only a handful of exceptionally strong-willed individuals are able to do so."

"You're _kidding_, right?" Milo asked. These wizards were _insanely broken_. A spell that killed on a touch attack without a save was bad enough — at least you had to hit. But add in a spell that lets you Dominate someone indefinitely _and_ had, apparently, an incredibly large bonus to its DC? Milo was briefly surprised that the whole Ministry wasn't run by Dark Wizards, before remembering how many pies Lucius Malfoy had his fingers in.

_Well_, he thought, _that would explain why people don't seem to realize how obviously evil he is. Anyone with any power is probably his thrall already_.

A frightening image came to Milo's mind of a thin, pale spider sitting in a large, dark room, surrounded by thousands of silken spider webs, from each of which dangled a major Ministry official like puppets. Milo realized he was badly mixing his metaphors, but, under the circumstances, had other things to worry about.

"So... what do you do about it?" Milo asked. "What's the counter-strategy?"

"There isn't much," Dumbledore admitted. "Keeping a close eye on one's associates and friends to see if they begin acting strangely, occasionally checking if they still remember past events, that sort of thing. It is, at best, only moderately effective."

Milo paled.

"And now, you see why it is that knowledge of these curses is kept to the upper year students," Dumbledore said. "But now, I have another question for you."

"Hit me," Milo said, trying to keep his mind from the horrifying implications of the Imperius.

"I think I will refrain from doing so," Dumbledore said, "as corporal punishment has generally more frowned upon now than it was in the days of Emeric the Evil. Why did you go out in search of Miss Hannah Abbot yesterday morning?"

"Oh," Milo said. "I thought I mentioned. I had to give her her Christmas present."

"Fascinating as that is, that is not precisely the answer I was looking for, as I think you know. To clarify: why, after you discovered that Miss Abbot had left the building, did you head out in search of her?"

Milo sighed.

"I thought something seemed wrong," Milo said, "and that she might be in trouble. And before you ask, no, it never occurred to me to ask a teacher for help."

"And why is that?" Dumbledore pressed.

"Same reason as with the 'Troll,'" Milo explained, as if it were obvious. "It's what I do."

"I rather think not," Dumbledore said. "After Hallowe'en, you explained to me — and I have reason to believe you were telling the truth — that you challenged the Troll rather than doing the sensible thing and running away because _fighting monsters_ was, as you say, what you do. You said, when I asked you then whether it was to protect innocent lives, that that was not the case and doing so was only a... a 'perk' was, I believe, the word you used."

"What's your point?" Milo asked, not used to prolonged conversations with NPCs and not fully realizing that he was being rude.

"Did you have any inkling, when you left, that a monster or Dark Wizard was involved in Hannah Abbot's mysterious exit?"

Milo thought about it.

"No," he admitted.

"Did you suspect, at that point, that she was being forced against her will?"

Milo scratched at his itchy bandages, playing for time. Eventually, he was forced to admit that he hadn't suspected anything of the sort.

"So, as far as you knew, she had simply been exceptionally foolish and wandered out into the snow in harsh winds and subzero temperatures?"

"I hadn't really thought about it," Milo admitted, "but if someone had asked me right then why I thought she was outside, that's probably how I would have answered."

"And you went looking for her."

"Of course," Milo said, still not entirely sure where this was going.

"Not to fight monsters."

"Nope," Milo agreed.

"But to protect an innocent life?" Dumbledore asked.

"I... suppose so? To protect Hannah, mostly."

"It's a start," Dumbledore said. "And you didn't do it because, from a cold, mechanical perspective, she would be of some use to you? Perhaps, in your crusade against Evil?"

"No," Milo said. "I can't see how she would be. Her talents lie in other directions," Milo said, feeling, for some reason, a bit defensive about her. "Not everyone has to be good at fighting to be worth saving, Headmaster."

"I feel, and feel free to correct me if I am wrong, that that may not have been the answer you gave me when we first met."

Milo shrugged.

"She's my friend," Milo said. "I've always protected my..." he trailed off. He had been about to say 'I've always protected my friends,' but, now that he thought about it, he'd never really _had_ friends. He protected his partymembers, of course, but that came with the job description, like fighting monsters. Hannah... Milo was, for once, unsure of her PC/NPC status, but was fairly sure that she wasn't, exactly, in the party. But didn't that make her, by definition, an NPC? Milo went cold. He'd risked his life to save an NPC without any hint or hope of a reward. He'd spent days, thousands of Gold Pieces, and hundreds of XP working on a Magic Item to simply _give_ to an NPC because he'd hurt her feelings. He_ actually _cared about what an NPC felt. What the _Hells_ was happening to him?

Milo felt queasy. _I didn't even loot the corpse!_ He was stunned. He'd simply _thrown away_ the Redcap's sword, which could have probably got him _at least_ 10 gp, assuming it counted as a Short Sword. And who knows what _else_ the grotesque abomination had been carrying? Milo was disgusted with himself. He'd let his emotions run away with him, getting in the way of good old pragmatic greed.

"I think," said Dumbledore, "what you are feeling, right now, and it may be that you are experiencing it for the first time and, as such, it is confusing you, is an aspect of a form of magic more ancient and powerful than any that Voldemort himself possesses."

"_What?_" Milo gasped. "_Detect Magic_," he cast, but nothing happened. For a brief, horrible moment he wondered if this mysterious magic that had apparently so addled his brain had also disabled his spellcasting. Then he realized he was simply out of spells, even Cantrips, until he could prepare new ones. "What kind of magic? Dispel me! _Dispel me, Dumbledore!_"

Dumbledore chuckled.

"Even if I could," he said, "no power on Earth could compel me to do so."

"Do you mean to say that _you're _behind this insanity?"

"No, Milo, the power of which I speak, the power that Voldemort so casually disregards, the power which was his undoing eleven years ago, the power which is, currently, already drawing you under its influence and subtly altering your perception of the world and your actions, is, you will find, quite beyond the reach of any mortal magic."

"So you _do_ have deities around here!"

"The power of which I speak, young Milo, is love."

Milo stared at him in utter silence, his jaw hanging open, trying to work, but no sound came out. In the end, Milo had to make a Concentration check simply to focus the necessary thought to activate his vocal chords.

"_Bull_. _Sh_—"

"I think," said Dumbledore, "that I will so rudely head you off before you finish that thought."

"Love." Milo said flatly. "You-Know-Who was brought down by the Power of Love. Maybe instead of learning magic, we should be putting flowers in our hair and frolicking in the forest like those pointy-eared pansies and singing around campfires. Voldy would be _powerless_ to resist our Flower Power."

"If that stretches your credulity, perhaps, I could more clearly state that it was love which triggered ancient and powerful protective magic," Dumbledore said calmly.

"Oh, well why didn't you say so in the first place?" asked Milo. "Ha! I'd love to have seen the expression on He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's face when a throwaway, poorly thought-out rule from an obscure splatbook that he never even bothered to read blew up in his face."

"Why do you say it was poorly thought out?" Dumbledore asked curiously.

"It allowed an infant to defeat the most powerful Dark Wizard that ever lived," Milo said, as if the reason were obvious. "That's got to be the most broken rule in _existence_. I gotta get me some of that. What, _exactly_, happened to trigger it?"

"Normally, I would leave this for Harry himself to tell you, but in this case, the story is quite well-known. You see, Voldemort was defeated because Harry's mother sacrificed her life to protect her son out of love, which placed a protection upon Harry that Voldemort was unable to overcome."

Milo paused, the implications of this dawning on him.

"How on the Prime Material did You-Know-Who _ever_ get to be that powerful in the first place, then?"

"I'm not sure I completely understand your question. Voldemort used a combination of subterfuge, cruelty, devoted followers, and powerful magic to —"

"No, I mean... I'm obviously no expert on the subject, but do mothers here not care about their children?" Milo asked, still perplexed.

"Of course they do," Dumbledore said. "I should think that the story I just told you was proof of that."

"Do Dark Wizards not kill infants, then?"

"Unfortunately, innocent children are no safer from their evil than fully trained wizards."

"Then _how_, in the name of the Eternal Library of Boccob, did You-Know-Who — and Grindelwald, and all the other Dark Wizards that ever lived — manage to rise to power without, at some point, attempting to kill a child that their mother died to protect? I mean, how many mothers _wouldn't_ die to protect their children? _Especially_ if they lived in a world where doing so made their child _literally_ invincible to dark magic." Milo was idly wondering if he could work something like it into his backstory, which would neatly solve his problem of dealing with the Killing Curse.

Dumbledore opened his mouth as if to answer, but, before he could, the door slammed open.

"_Out!_" shrieked an irate Madam Pomfrey. "I won't have you bothering my patients! They need to _rest in peace_ — wait, poor choice of wording... they need _peaceful rest_, not to be bothered by constant questions!" Ironically, while Dumbledore was speaking quietly and softly, it was Pomfrey's tirade that woke up the sleeping Hannah and Neville.

"Blast," said Dumbledore quietly. "Rumbled, it would seem." He stood up, and walked slowly towards the mediwitch, hands outstretched in a calming gesture. "Ah, my dear Madam Pomfrey, just the witch I was hoping to see. Did I ever tell you how exceptional I've always found your work?" He put an arm on her shoulder as he walked to the door, evidently hoping that she'd be taken in and follow him out. She looked briefly mollified, then her eyes hardened again and she brushed his arm off.

"_No!_ I'm on to your tricks, Headmaster! Don't think you can silver-tongue your way out of things _this_ time!"

"Alas," Dumbledore sighed. "Foiled again. Might we, at least, continue what I'm certain will be a most _pleasant_ discussion outside, so as not to disturb your patients further?"

Pomfrey threw a quick, surprised glance at Hannah and Neville, who were looking around blearily to find out where the war had started and whether they ought to go and find helmets and a foxhole.

"Perhaps that would be, er, for the best," Pomfrey said in a much quieter voice, and followed the Headmaster out, having lost the initiative. Dumbledore glanced over his shoulder and winked at Milo, then walked out with the somewhat bemused-looking healer.

"Why was Doreumble... Dormble... Dumbledore here?" Hannah asked, fighting down a yawn.

"He wanted to ask me about yesterday," Milo explained. "He'll probably come back later to talk to you about it."

"Oh," said Hannah, who, if truth be told, would be just as happy forgetting it had ever happened. Then she shrugged, and went back to sleep.

Milo, whose brain was wracked with too many unanswered questions — Dumbledore, Milo had noticed, had an unfortunate habit of answering a question in a way that provoked twelve more — started memorizing spells simply to clear his head. Unfortunately, the arcane sigils in his book kept blurring together and dancing in front of his vision for him to make much progress there, and he grudgingly set aside his spellbook for later. He hadn't had trouble preparing spells since he was apprentice level.

_So, I've been bewitched, have I? Enchanted by powerful and ancient magic that's compromising my ability to think logically. There must be some cure... _Break Enchantment_ probably wouldn't even do it, as it only works on spells of fifth level or lower. This _love magic_ business sounds closer to ninth level. Assuming magic here even _has _levels, of course. Maybe there's some cure to be found in the local magic... Dumbledore said there wasn't, but not even he can know everything, right? Maybe if I _—

"Hey," Neville said abruptly.

"Uh, hi, Nev," Milo responded. "What's up?"

"Well, you looked busy earlier, but now that you're not studying anymore, I thought I'd ask what happened. You and Hannah look pretty beaten up, I mean. Did Peeves do something?"

"No, I got gutted by a Redcap with a sword."

"Oh," said Neville. "Wow. Why didn't you just pull out your wand and cast —"

"Didn't have time," Milo lied.

"Shame, 'cause it's a dead easy spell. Even I can do it, and I'm rubbish at, well everything."

"We should probably be quiet," Milo said. "Hannah's trying to sleep. _Damnit_, I did it again!"

"Did what?" Neville asked.

"Uh. Nothing," Milo said, having forgotten that NPCs could hear you when you weren't speaking directly to them.

"You're right, though, of course," Neville said. "You can tell me all about it later."

Milo lay back, cursing his confused brain. Everything had seemed so simple a few months ago. PCs help you defeat monsters and get treasure, NPCs _give_ you treasure for defeating monsters. Everything was becoming so tangled lately.

And his combat skills must be going rusty as well; that Redcap, judging by the XP he earned, was only CR 2. He'd nearly _died_ fighting it, which was completely unacceptable. The problem, looking at it in hindsight, was obvious: Milo's spell list was carefully optimized for what he had previously considered to be a typical combat. As a Wizard, his job was to neutralize as many enemies as possible in the first few rounds of combat so that his partymembers with knives and pointy sticks could move in and do the actual _damage_ unimpeded. To that end, he preferred spells that could make as many enemies as possible as useless as possible as quickly as possible — thus, _Grease_ and _Glitterdust_. But lately, he'd been involved in a lot of solo encounters, and Milo just wasn't capable of dishing out the kind of damage necessary to finish off an enemy — which is why he'd had so much trouble with the Troll and the Redcap. It meant he had to burn a much larger number of spells per enemy than he normally would, and, as a result, ran out of ammo precipitously fast.

"I should stop going out alone," he realized. "I need backup. That and the capability to rain down fiery doom, just in case." Milo briefly considered _Fireball_, but realized that at his current level, the much more toned down _Kelgore's Fire Bolt_ would deal the same amount of damage without the same possibility for collateral damage. Also, being a Conjuration spell, he would get a few bonuses from his specialty school. _Fireball_ would take longer to research, being a 3rd level spell (Kelgore's little toy was only 1st level) so Milo opted to begin research on _Kelgore's Fire Bolt_ now and get _Fireball_ afterwards — and maybe _Scorching_ or _Seeking Ray_ after that.

Thinking about spells, tactics, and general optimization had put Milo back into his more usual mindset, and he opted to continue memorizing spells.

A few minutes after the requisite hour had passed, the door opened again to reveal yet more visitors.

Harry and Ron walked in. Ron looked part worried and part excited, while Harry just looked distracted. Ron, to Milo's delight, was carrying a platter laden with toast, butter, and tea.

"Blimey!" said Ron. "What happened? We were worried when you didn't come back at night, but figured you'd just gone off to work on something mad like you usually do. Next morning, Dumbledore _himself_ walks into the Common Room and asks us to take breakfast up to you and Hannah — hi, Hannah" (Hannah had woken up when they entered, and was staring at the food with undisguised greed) "— and _blimey_ you look terrible." Ron was, however, carrying food, so Milo decided to let him live — this time.

"Yeah," Harry said distractedly.

Milo shrugged, and for the third time told the story again, glossing over the part where he'd accidentally knifed the girl now sitting a few feet away from him.

"I reckon you couldn't have just driven the Red Cap off with —"

"No," Milo sighed, resolving to punch the next person who suggested using one of the local wizards' simple anti-Redcap spells. "I can't cast those, remember? Anyways, what's up with you two?"

"What do you mean?" Ron asked.

"Harry's off in his own little world," Milo said.

"Is he?" Ron asked, looking over his shoulder at the Boy-Who-Lived, who had been staring absently at one of Milo's bed fixtures. "You're right," Ron said, surprised. "He _is_. Oi! Potter! What's going on in there?"

"I saw my parents last night," Harry said reluctantly.

"What, like in a dream?" Milo asked. "'Cause they seem to be going around."

"No," Harry said. "In a mirror."


	20. Chapter 20: The Mirror of Erised

Author's Notes: Sorry for the short chapter this week (a mere 7 pages instead of the usual 10). I'm out of town with the family, so next week's chapter will either be short as well or delayed a few days (Monday most likely, Tuesday at the _very_ latest). Also, as a result, this chapter hasn't been edited for grammar and spelling as thoroughly as they usually are, but I'll come back and clean it up later. Hopefully it's not too bad. Sorry about all that! Hopefully all the bonus chapters last week and the week before make up for it.

Anyways, on with the story!

EDIT: Most of the typoes and things seem to have been caught now. Thanks to everyone who helped point them out!

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

"Look, I know people always say you look just like your dad, but with your mum's eyes —" Ron said.

"No, that's not what I meant. I _actually_ saw my parents in this mirror. And their parents, and their brothers and sisters, and a whole _family_." Harry told them how, the night before, he'd gone exploring under his Cloak of Invisibility and discovered the magical mirror in an unused classroom.

"Wow," said Ron, clearly impressed. "That must be some mirror."

"Show me," said Milo.

"Wait!" said Hannah. "You can't just go gallivanting off! You're supposed to have _complete bed rest_, remember?"

"You sound just like Hermione," Ron muttered.

"Someone has to," said Hannah defensively.

Milo cursed. She was actually right — if he got out of bed, he'd have to come back and stay a whole 'nother day to get back to full hit points.

"I think I'll have to chance it," Milo said. With luck (something he very rarely seemed to have) he wouldn't be needing all of his hit points for at least another day or so. Harry's mirror, however, might not be there tomorrow at all, and frankly, it seemed fairly plot-relevant.

"Let's go find it," Milo said, ignoring Hannah's protests. "But first, Harry — put it on your list. That, the Power of Love, and the Imperius Curse."

Harry shrugged, pulling the small stack of parchment which held The List (Milo made a note to make a few backups of it with _Amanuensis_ or the Pen of Plagiarism +5, just in case) out of his school bag and diligently wrote them down.

Milo uncomfortably pulled his filthy Robe of Arcane Might over his pajamas. The way things were going recently, he didn't want to waste a _Prestidigitation_ to clean it off — there was no telling when he was going to be ambushed next.

"All right," he said. "Lead on."

Harry, Ron, and Milo strode out of the hospital wing

"We should hide under the cloak," Harry suggested when they were out of earshot of the other patients.

"Oh, come on," Milo scoffed. "Three people can't wear one magic item. It just can't be done. I know I like to bend the rules sometimes, but _seriously_. Three people under one cloak? _That's_ a stretch."

"Really?" Harry asked. "That's somewhat surprising. It seems large enough to cover all of us; I mean, it was made for an adult, right?"

"Trust me," Milo said authoritatively. "It's patently impossible. It'd be like trying to cast a spell in the same turn as running, or drinking two potions in a six-second period. Can't be done. End of story."

"Huh," said Harry. "Go figure. Okay, well _you_ should wear it, then, because you're supposed to still be in the hospital wing."

"Good plan," Milo said, pulling the cloak over his dirty, bloodstained magic robes. "All right, let's go."

Harry led them through some unfamiliar Hogwarts corridors (always a rather risky prospect), past a door pretending to be a wall (and once, embarrassingly, directly into a wall pretending to be a door), down a staircase that turns into a ramp if you don't ask it nicely not to, and, finally, into an old, abandoned classroom. The Cloak of Invisibility turned out to be unnecessary, as the only person they encountered (if the word 'person' could even be applied here) was the Bloody Baron, who, as usual, ignored them entirely. In the classroom were cobwebs and a thick coating of dust on most of the desks and chairs, except for a wide corridor down the middle where a number of them had been pushed to the side — presumably to allow persons unknown to carry in Harry's mirror, which sat at the front of the room, where the Professor would stand to lecture the class.

Milo let out a low whistle.

"Now _that_," he said, "is one _Hell_ of a magicky-looking item." The mirror was, for one, _huge_. It's top nearly touched the ceiling, and Milo couldn't figure out how anyone could possibly have gotten it through the door. The frame was of intricately worked gold, and if that didn't scream Magic, nothing did.

"That the technical term, you figure?" Ron asked wryly.

"Come on," Harry said impatiently. "Sit in front of it and _look_, it's my mum and dad."

"Whoa, hold on there," Milo said. "If there's one thing you learn as an Adventurer it's that you don't just go looking in random magic mirrors before finding out _exactly_ what they do."

"But I know what this one does," Harry protested. "It shows my parents."

"Maybe," Milo said cautiously. "I've seen mirrors that create evil copies of anyone who looks at them, mirrors that suck you in and trap you, mirrors that blast you forwards in time, mirrors that switch your mind with the owner's, mirrors that make _Suggestions_ you can't refuse —"

"My mirror does that!" Ron interrupted. "Tells me whether my shirt's untucked, my laces are undone, or there's something in my teeth! And when you ignore it, blimey, does it make a fuss."

"But this mirror doesn't do anything like that!" Harry protested again. "I looked into it, and I'm fine!"

Milo looked at him suspiciously.

"How do we know that?" he asked. "Seems awfully suspicious, doesn't it? I mean, if you _were_ possessed by some evil being who placed the mirror here, the first thing you'd do is try to convince others to look at it, too, wouldn't you?"

"But I'm _not _— I'm _fine_, really. You're just paranoid 'cause of Hannah."

"Use _Protection From Weevils_," Ron suggested. "Remember, the thing you did on Hannah that made her Hannah again?"

"Good thinking. _Protection From Evil_," Milo cast on Harry. The Boy-Who-Lived was surrounded by a brief glow which faded in a fraction of a second. "Feel any different now?"

"No," Harry said with an audible edge in his voice. "Because I _wasn't possessed_. Can we look at the mirror now, or do you want to throw me in the water and see if I float first?"

"Why would I —"

"Ah, nevermind. Just look at the bloody thing."

"Fine," Milo said. "Ron, you go first." If the mirror _did_ launch some form of attack, Milo figured that, of the three of them, he would be the best equipped to deal with it and therefore couldn't afford to be neutralized on the first round. That was his story, and he was sticking to it. Eagerly, Ron stepped forwards and stared at the mirror.

Ron gasped, and Milo nearly started raining arcane doom everywhere before he started speaking again.

"Blimey! I'm — I'm head boy!" Ron said, astonished. "And I'm holding the Quidditch Cup! I — wow, it looks like I'm captain of the team!"

"_What?_" Harry asked. "Let me see that!" Giving Ron a little shove, he positioned himself right in front of the mirror. "No, look, see? It's my mum and dad! They're _right_ there in front of us!"

"Maybe," Ron said slowly, "it's different for everyone?" Then his eyes widened. "Do you reckon it shows the future?"

"How can it?" Harry asked. "All my family are dead, remember?"

"That doesn't really mean anything," Milo said. "There's no reason, beyond the fact that it would be _highly_ improbable, that Ron couldn't become _both_ head boy and Quidditch captain."

"But —"

"And as for your parents, well, there's dozens of ways for my kind of magic to bring back the dead," Milo said slowly.

"Right," Harry said in an odd voice. "I'd forgotten about that." Perhaps it was an unusually high Sense Motive roll for once, or Milo's recent ... confused state, but something told him that Harry was lying and hadn't, in fact, forgotten for a moment that Milo could, one day, _Limited Wish_ Harry's parents back to life.

"Well," Milo said eventually, screwing up his courage. "I think, maybe, I should have a go at the mirror."

With a fair amount of trepidation, Milo stepped up in front of the ornate mirror while trying to avoid thinking of all the various kinds of horrible, trapped mirrors out there. Now that he thought about it, he couldn't recall a _single_ magical mirror that didn't have some form of vicious curse. His eyes were still carefully averted, staring at the toes of his adventurer's boots.

_Why, oh _why_ did I use my only _Protection From Evil _on Harry?_ Milo berated himself.

Steadying himself with deep, calming breaths, Milo forced his eyes to stare directly at the polished silver surface.

The universe unveiled itself in front of him, and, while, conceptually at least, Milo knew from Wizards experimenting with Divinations and _Greater Teleport_ that the distance between stars was inconceivably far and that the distance between _galaxies_ made even _that_ colossal distance seem completely negligible, Milo could see, clearly, pinpoints of light unfolding before him in numbers so large that they didn't have names. Many of those stars had planets, and many of those planets had moons, and a rare few of those planets and moons had life. Milo saw stout, bearded dwarves bustling about in their mines and forges, not knowing that with every greedy swing of their pick they unwittingly brought themselves one step closer to their own inexorable demise as they approached the horrors which lay beneath their underground cities. Milo saw proud elves, comfortable in the fact that they'd been toying with the very fabric of the universe and living in shining cities and soaring towers while the lesser races had yet to discover fire; blind, in their arrogance, to their ever-waning power, numbers, and relevance to the world outside of their sequestered paradises. Milo saw humans beyond number, living their lives, tilling soil, and always expanding outwards, propelled by their adventurous spirit and search for excitement, not knowing what was in store for them when they found there nowhere else to discover. Milo saw ankhegs, centaurs, chimera, dragons, gnomes, halflings, half-elves, aquatic elves, wood elves, dark elves, high elves, gray elves, wild elves, wood elves, orcs, goblins, hobgoblins, bugbears, half-orcs, magmin, barghests, blink dogs, dinosaurs, dire animals, ghosts, ghouls, ogres, oozes, mephits, medusae, merfolk, sahuagin, sprites, lamias, wyverns, will-o-wisps, and wraiths. Milo saw the entirety of the Prime Material as if he were examining every object, creature, and wisp of smoke with intense scrutiny. Milo saw the Great Wheel of the Outer Planes, the sixteen infinitely large planes of Celestia, Bytopia, Elysium, the Beastlands, Arborea, Ysgard, Limbo, Pandemonium, the Abyss, Carceri, Hades, Gehenna, Baator, Acheron, Mechanus, and Arcadia arranged clockwise around the barren Outlands, which, from its heart, rose the impossibly tall Spire, ringed at its peak by Sigil, The City of Doors. Milo saw the Lower Planes ripped apart by the never ending Blood War and the uncaring laughter of their thirsting gods. Milo saw the Inner Planes of Air, Fire, Earth, Water, and Positive and Negative energy from which the Multiverse itself was made. Milo saw the Astral, Ethereal, Shadow, and elusive Mirror Transitive planes, and the madness of the Far Realm. Milo saw the Multiverse in its entirety, and it was all _his_.

Milo saw himself, with an infinitely high level in every Class and Prestige Class, with every feat worth taking and a good many that aren't, with infinite ranks in infinite skills, with infinite ability scores and infinite ability modifiers, with infinite hit points, with infinite spells per day and every spell known, lounging on what, at first glance, appeared to be an intricately carved throne of every precious metal, expensive special material, and gemstone Milo had ever heard of (and several others, as well) but upon closer inspection were, in fact, Epic Magic Items and Artifacts. Milo saw a backrest composed of dozens of Staffs of the Magi sitting on piles of Rings of Universal Energy Immunity and Bracers of Relentless Might. One armrest was simply the Axe of the Dwarvish Lords while the other appeared to be the great battleaxe of Heironeous Himself, sitting on a pile of the six weapons of his archenemy, Hextor. Milo, the most powerful character conceivable, lounged on his terrible throne, staring at His gauntleted hand (in some detached part of his brain, Milo realized it was nothing less than the Iron Gauntlet of War), an expression of detached ennui on his blank face. In his other hand, he idly spun the Gold Dragon Orb around his fingers, one of the most powerful artifacts in creation reduced to a mere stress ball. Who has any need of an Orb of Dragonkind, even the most powerful one, when Milo could simply rewrite reality to create a breed of _better _dragons, forced to bow to his every will?

Milo had no enemies, for they had all long since been defeated. He had no adventures to undertake, for there were none of an appropriate Encounter Level. He had no friends, for he needed none. He had no dungeons to raid, for he had the Multiverse in his inventory. He had no familiar, for they could be traded for more powerful alternate class features. He had no partymembers, because in the impossible event that he would need allies, what could be more powerful than _Simulacra_ of himself?

The Milo in the mirror had everything he'd ever wanted, everything he'd ever seen, everything he'd ever heard of, everything he'd ever only conceived of.

Milo —the real Milo — wasn't sure when he'd started screaming. He felt hands (the detached part of his brain that kept noticing minute details even in impossible situations noted that it must have been Ron and Harry, not that the rest of him cared) struggling to pull him away from the mirror, but even as they dragged him away from it he couldn't summon the willpower to tear his eyes from the horrible visage. Eventually, one of them wrapped the Cloak of Invisibility around the artifact, and the visions stopped — but the memories remained.

"What the bloody _hell_ was that?" Ron asked, his face pale and bloodless.

"I... I saw everything," Milo said weakly. He tasted blood in his mouth, he must have bit his tongue at some point. "And ... and it was mine. I had everything ... everything except a reason to..." he trailed off, his brain still not fully functioning.

"Reason to what, mate?" Ron asked nervously in an odd, falsely cheerful voice.

"Anything," Milo said. "No reason to anything."

"Look on the bright side," Ron said. "If that's the future, it means we beat You-Know-Who."

"_You-Know-Who?_" Milo asked, his voice full of scorn. "The me in the mirror could have vaporized _You-Know-Who_ with a Silent Stilled Heightened Maximized Empowered Intensified Twinned Explosive Quickened _Cantrip _just by willing it to be so."

"But that's good, isn't it?"

"I'd imagine it would get dull after a few eons," Milo said, still trying to shake the horrifying images the mirror had shown him. Had it really shown him the future? What were the rules that governed it? "I'll need to take another look," Milo said eventually, staggering to his feet. He spat blood on the floor of the classroom, and wiped at his mouth with his even grimier robe.

"_No_," Harry said firmly. "Absolutely not."

"I need to know how it works," Milo said. "I _need_ to know if that's really the future."

"You're not going anywhere _near_ that thing," Harry insisted.

"_Fine_," Milo said sharply. "Then one of you two give it a close examination and tell me if you see anything weird. Look at the frame, and try not to get sucked in." Not even Milo was sure if he meant that last bit literally or figuratively. "I'll even close my eyes. See? 'Cause I don't. On account of my eyes being closed."

"I'm not taking the Invisibility Cloak off until you're out of the room or blindfolded," Harry said stubbornly.

With growing irritation brought on by his numerous injuries and conflicted feelings about his vision in the mirror, Milo muttered a few choice oaths as he fished a scarf out of his Belt of Hidden Pouches and obligingly tied it around his face.

"Can we get on with it now?" he snapped. Then he took a deep breath and tried to calm himself down. "Sorry," he said eventually, picturing their hurt expressions. "I'm still kind of in shock from the... mirror thing. And yesterday's thing." Then he realized what he was doing, and his breath caught. "_Damnit!_ I shouldn't have to care about your _feelings!_ Argh, let's just examine this mirror and get it over with already."

Milo heard a rustling of cloth as, presumably, the mirror's Cloak was lifted. There was silence as Ron and Harry were (hopefully) diligently examining the mirror's border and not being absorbed by its eldritch powers.

"Oi, Harry, look at this," Ron said.

"Yeah, I saw that," Harry said. "Just looked like a load of Gobbledegook to me."

"Nah, doesn't look anything _remotely_ like Gobbledegook."

"Could one of you tell me, pray, what it is that you are speaking of?" Milo asked.

"There's some writing on the mirror," Harry said. "But it's nonsense."

There were a number of ways Milo had available to transmute nonsensical writing into its sensical variant, but all of them required that he be able to actually see the words in front of him.

"Write it down on some parchment," Milo said. "Make sure you get it exactly right — does it use the Common alphabet?"

"Uh..."

"English. The English alphabet."

"Oh, yeah, definitely."

"Fortuitous. Shouldn't be too hard, then." Milo heard the unbuttoning of a school bag and hurried scratching of a quill before a piece of parchment was placed into his hands. Milo very carefully turned so he was facing away from the mirror and removed his blindfold. Written on a small scrap of parchment was, in Harry's scrawl,

_Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_.

Milo stared at it for a moment, but concluded it wasn't in any language he recognized.

"_Comprehend Languages_," he cast, a spell which allowed him to understand any written and spoken language. To his faint surprise, the writing remained completely nonsensical — the only conclusion was that it had to be in code of some form.

"I'll have to do this the good old fashioned way," Milo muttered. He'd been habitually placing skill ranks in Decipher Script every level because it was Intelligence-based and understanding ancient runes seemed the sort of thing a Wizard ought to be able to do, but he hadn't actually had a chance to use them before. Nevertheless, inconsequential problems such as never having tried to decipher anything before did nothing to prevent the fact that, by any standard, Milo was very nearly an expert cryptoanalyst. Milo was a little excited to finally have the opportunity to put his Skills to use, testing them against the no doubt formidable defences of the accursed mirror. He cracked his knuckles and stretched, pulling out a few sheets of parchment and his quill. It was time for some serious, heavy-duty Script Deciphering.

"It's backwards," he said, sounding somewhat disappointed. "_I show not your face but your hearts _[sic]_ desire_."

"Your heartsick desire, eh?" said Ron skeptically. "That sounds sort of ... racy, to be honest."

"No —"

"Maybe it was confused," Harry mused. "Because we haven't got any heartsick desires, so it just showed us whatever we wanted to see?"

"But —"

"So, you reckon the mirror just shows you whatever you want?" Ron asked, impressed. "Clever, Harry."

Milo simply groaned and seriously contemplated applying his forehead directly to a very inviting-looking hewn stone wall when a thought struck him.

_The mirror shows you your heart's desire_, he thought. _Even if you don't already know what it looks like _—_like Harry's parents or my, well, my entire Multiverse._

Milo's face broke into a wide grin. He saw an exploit.

_All I have to do is figure out how to change my heart's desire_, he realized, _and I can see whatever I want_.

Ron, however, was developing an increasingly worried look.

"There's something my dad always says," he said, "How did it go? Oh, right: _Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain_. Mind, I've gotten some right peculiar looks from his Ford Anglia now and again, and it seems perfectly friendly."

_Infinite power might be my long-term goal, _Milo thought_, although, to be fair, I'm starting to seriously reconsider that. Well, within reason, anyways. But what I _really _want, right now, more than _anything else_, is to find out what Voldemort's up to_. _Yup, honest. That's what I want._

"Now show me, mirror," Milo said quietly, and turned around. As a precaution, he readied an action: look away if it shows me anything other than information on You-Know-Who. You _can't_ back down from readied actions.

He winced in almost physical pain as he was given another infinitesimally short view of the Multiverse and his own horrible fate again.

"What are you _doing?_" Harry asked. "Don't _look_ at the thing!"

"No, trust me," Milo said, clutching his aching forehead. "I know what I'm doing. Sort of."

_Okay, so maybe I really don't care that much about the Dark Lord after all. How about something a little smaller... I want, more than anything, to see what _Kelgore's Fire Bolt_ looks like written out in a spellbook_. That was sort of true, in fact — he had just decided, after all, that it would be his next research project. If he could somehow finagle the mirror into showing him what to write in his spellbook, he could save a week's work and a thousand gold pieces.

When Milo turned around again, it was with enough presage to fill a Type II Bag of Holding. Unfortunately, the mirror once again saw through his mental tricks, and he was treated to a view of Mirror-Milo killing time by covering every square inch of the Prime Material in _Arcane Marks_.

"I'm getting away from this thing," he said, flinching and attempting to look anywhere other than at the nightmare being played out in the glass. "The mirror, it's... it's... agh, nevermind. I'm going back to bed."

He'd been about to say 'the mirror, it's Evil,' but it clearly wasn't. It was absolutely, brutally, _horribly_ Neutral. It showed you what your heart desired, but sometimes, what you desire isn't the same as what you desire you'd desire...

As Milo walked back to the hospital wing, his head off in space, he suddenly had another idea.

"I wonder if someone here can bewitch me to desire nothing more than the spellbook entry for _Kelgore's Fire Bolt_?" he mused aloud. "Or other spells, for that matter. Mordy, remind me to ask Hermione, okay? Thanks."

Milo's familiar poked its furry head out of his extradimensional belt and nodded.

Maybe it was simply an unusually good roll, or maybe it was the +2 bonus to Spot and Listen granted from his bond with Mordy, but Milo suddenly felt as if a White Dragon was breathing down the back of his neck. Mordy's ears perked up, suddenly alert.

Milo knew not to look around stupidly and say 'Hello? Ron, is that you? Harry? This isn't funny, guys!,' followed by the inevitable 'Aaaaargh!' as whatever it was that was hiding out there ate his face. Instead, our gallant hero simply licked his suddenly-dry lips and walked forwards as casually as he could manage.

Cursing himself for leaving the Cloak of Invisibility with Harry and Ron, Milo reckoned his best chance was to — _wait_...

_Harry and Ron_.

Patting his pockets as if he had forgotten something, Milo cursed in a somewhat overdramatic fashion (not having any ranks in Disguise or Bluff, Milo was a terrible actor) and started to return to the room with the mirror. _Whatever_ it was that had triggered Milo's Spot check (if that was, indeed, what it had been) had easy access to those two, who, still being relative novices at this plane's peculiar branch of magic, were nearly defenceless. Equally importantly, Milo didn't particularly want to face it alone in his current state.

While turning around and searching his pockets, Milo had a chance to look around the corridor, which remained empty save for the obligatory suits of armour and statuary. Mio considered casting _See Invisibility_, but remembered how that had seemed to have no effect, oddly, on whatever it was Snape had used to hide himself in his office before the Quidditch match.

"_Detect Thoughts_," Milo muttered under his breath. Mere Invisibility would be of no use against the spell, which revealed the presence — and, if he concentrated on it long enough, the number — of intelligent, conscious creatures in a cone emanating from Milo.

The spell immediately alerted him that he was right — something intelligent was standing within sixty feet of him. Milo forced himself not to look around nervously, waiting for the spell to cough up how many people — or bloodsucking monsters — there were skulking around him.

When it finally did, Milo was so surprised that it almost broke his concentration on the spell. He'd thought there would be one, or two at the most, sneaky persons and/or bloodsucking monstrosities for him to _Glitterdust_ and run away from.

Within the fairly narrow conical field that _Detect Thoughts_ covers, Milo detected in the seemingly-empty corridor no less than twelve sentient creatures.


	21. Chapter 21: Bewitched

Author's Notes: Sorry for the lateness (and, again, shortness) of this chapter! I'm still flat-footed from my trip. Since Term is starting, I'll be switching to Sundays for updates (thus giving me Saturdays to write). Once again, this chapter was only briefly edited, so please forgive any errors! I'll try to fix things over the course of the week. Things should be back to normal in terms of length and grammar for the next chapter.

Also, an extremely helpful fan has shown me a workaround for a problem I've been having with myth-weavers, so I might be able to post chapterly character sheet updates. We'll see how things go.

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

"You reckon we should go after him?" Harry asked.

"In a minute," Ron said absently, still staring at the Mirror.

"It's just ..." Harry said. "I dunno, he seemed a bit, well, off."

"I'm sure he's fine," Ron said, making a vague gesture.

"Looking into a mirror that shows your heart's desire and screaming your head off doesn't seem particularly _fine_ to me," Harry said with growing certainty. "And, I mean, he's injured and all."

"Hey," Ron said, suddenly alert. "What do you reckon Hermione would see in here? Herself with a load of the world's dullest books probably ... still, we should probably show her when she gets back. And what about Fred and George?"

Harry looked at Ron, his eyes narrowing.

"So you think we should show a bunch of people?" Harry asked neutrally.

"Dunno," Ron shrugged. "Just wondering what they'd see is all. What about Neville? Bet it'd be himself with no bandages holding a Remembrall that's completely dim, eh? Or an 'O' in Transfiguration."

_No way_, Harry thought. _Could Milo have been right about the Mirror?_

"I think," Harry said slowly, "that we should go talk to Dumbledore — or McGonagall."

"What, really?" Ron asked, as if Harry had just suggested they jump into a pit of venomous snakes.

"Yeah," said Harry. "I reckon the Mirror, it's, well, it's like Milo said, it's making you want to go and get other people to show it to." The last several words spilled out all at once.

"_What?_" Ron sputtered. "Need I remind you that he _also_ nicked the contents of everyone's trunks because he thought they were, and I quote, _treasure chests_? He's off his rocker."

"But when _I_ saw the mirror the next thing I did was to go get you two, and now _you_ want to go get other people! It's just like he said!"

"I was just wondering what they'd see is all," Ron said defensively. "And anyway, it's not like it's a crime, is it? It's a fun mirror, I mean. But it's not like I was seriously considering it."

"That so? Or is the Mirror _making_ you say that?"

"If I was being possessed," Ron said firmly. "I'd know about it."

"_I_ didn't know when it made me show it to you!"

Ron rolled his eyes.

"Look, say you're right and it's this big dirty evil magic Mirror that's controlling me with its big dirty evil magic Mirror powers," Ron said patiently. "_If _that were true — and it isn't, but if it _were_ — then we wouldn't be having this dumb conversation because you'd be controlled by its big dirty evil magic Mirror powers also."

Harry frowned for a moment, then a thought struck him.

"No," he said excitedly, "because he used _Protection From Evil _on me, remember? The Mirror can't influence me — but we have to find a teacher before it wears off! Can you remember how long it lasts? I can't."

"This is mad," Ron said exasperatedly. "We're just getting jumpy 'cause of Hannah and convinced everyone's possessed whenever they do _anything_. This time tomorrow someone will suggest we go get breakfast and everyone will be all 'He's possessed! Let's go run to Dumbledore!' or 'He said he was going to the loo! He must be possessed!'"

"That's what you _would_ say if the Mirror were controlling you," Harry insisted.

"It's _also_ what I'd say if I thought you were becoming an increasingly annoyingly paranoid git," Ron said, losing his patience. "Just saying."

"Let's just go find him and go to McGonagall, okay? I mean, what's the worst that could happen?"

"That we all get eaten by spiders in the hallway, _obviously_," Ron said. "But _fine_, let's go — if it's the only thing that'll shut you up about this. Now, where do you reckon he is?"

"Where who is?" asked a new voice. Harry and Ron turned, shocked, to find Milo leaning calmly against the doorframe to the classroom.

"You," Harry said while Ron said "What are you doing _here_?"

"What are you lot fighting about?" he asked, ignoring Ron's question entirely.

"Sir Paranoid here reckons we've both been bewitched," Ron said, "and wants to take us to McGonagall."

Milo snorted dismissively.

"Lead on, then," he said. "Not that it will accomplish much; that's practically impossible to detect."

"One second," Harry said. "Just going to grab the Cloak."

Milo raised an eyebrow briefly as Harry shoved his Invisibility Cloak into his schoolbag, but said nothing.

"Right, let's go," Harry said, shouldering his bag and heading to the door. "And both of you stay in front of me," he added, "just in case."

As they walked to McGonagall's office, Harry kept a firm grip on his wand — he wasn't sure just how much power (if any) the Mirror had over them, but decided not to take any chances.

"Er, mate," Ron said anxiously as they rounded one of the last corners to their destination, "not really sure how to tell you this, but your magic belt thingy seems to be acting up." Ron gestured at Milo's belt, which, now that he was looking closely, Harry noticed _did_, indeed, seem to be 'acting up.' One of the ten small pouches was wiggling around, as if something inside was trying to get out.

"It does that sometimes," Milo said with a shrug. "It's nothing that need worry you."

"Oh," said Ron. "It's just I never noticed it before."

"Isn't that where you keep your rat?" Harry asked shrewdly. He'd seen the furry little animal poking it's head out of the belt occasionally to look around. In fact, he didn't think he'd ever seen the buckle on that particular pouch done up before...

"Nope," Milo said blithely.

"Oh, okay," Harry said as if it were nothing. _Something weird's definitely going on_, he thought. _Best get to McGonagall as quickly as possible._

"Still can't believe I'm _voluntarily_ walking to McGonagall's office," Ron muttered. "_Again_. What would Fred and George say?"

Harry expected Milo to make a quip about just how 'voluntary' (or rather, involuntary) Ron's trip to the Deputy Headmistress's office really was, but Milo remained silent, staring straight ahead with his shoulders set.

It felt like it took ages, but in reality, it was only a four minute walk or so from the abandoned classroom to their destination. Harry rapped quickly on the door three times, not taking his eyes off of Milo.

"Come in," Harry heard.

"Right," Harry said, gesturing with his wand (although, in truth, he didn't know any spells off-hand that he would use on them anyways). "You two go in first, and leave the talking to me."

"You're mad, mate," Ron muttered, and pushed the door open.

"Misters Potter, Weasley, and Amastacia-Liadon," McGonagall said, rising from her chair. "What seems to be the mat— why are you holding your wand? And _you_, shouldn't you be in the hospital wing?"

"I think these two have been bewitched —"Harry started.

"Oh, come now," McGonagall said in a pacifying tone. "Why would —"

"— by a magic Mirror. And so have I."

"Mirror?" McGonagall asked sharply, suddenly alert. "Explain everything on the way. Let's go."

"Where are we going?" Ron asked as McGonagall stepped around her desk to the door.

"To see the Headmaster, of course. This nonsense about bewitchment aside, I need to talk to him about just _leaving _a certain powerful magical artifact where just _anyone_ can bump into it."

Despite the fact that she had dismissed Harry's concerns about mental control off-hand, Harry noticed that McGonagall, who usually liked to stay at the front of any particular group, stayed a half-step behind Harry, Ron and Milo on the way up to Dumbledore's hidden office — a fact which made it somewhat awkward for him to recount the events surrounding the mirror.

McGonagall guided them down Hogwarts' ever-shifting halls, through false walls, up some stairs, down some stairs, up some more stairs, took what Harry swore were three left turns at one point and still ended up somewhere different, until they eventually stopped in front of an ominous-looking gargoyle statue. While Harry hadn't ever been to this particular statue, he was fairly sure McGonagall had taken a deliberately circuitous route.

Harry saw McGonagall's lips move, but a sudden ringing in his ears prevented him from hearing whatever it was she said. Just as abruptly as it started, the ringing stopped, and the gargoyle seemed to _rotate_ upwards into a spiral staircase. Something about the way it moved seemed subtly _wrong_ to Harry, but he'd seen enough magic to know not to analyze things too closely.

"Up you go," McGonagall said, and they trotted up the stone staircase to a heavy wooden door. McGonagall knocked politely on the door and waited.

"Shouldn't we just go in?" Harry asked, impatient. He didn't know how much longer _Protection From Evil_ would last, or if it had already run out. "This is urgent."

"Neither the Minister for Magic, Nicolas Flamel, nor even He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would dare enter the Headmaster's office without permission. So we wait."

Harry waited several uncomfortable seconds, tapping his foot impatiently against the ancient stone floor. Eventually, the door simply swung open to let them in.

Dumbledore sat behind a heavy oak desk, wearing a particularly eye-watering multi-hued robe and his trademark half-moon spectacles.

"Why, Minerva, what an unexpected surprise!" he said, looking genuinely pleased. "And I see you've brought guests! Is it tea time already?"

"No, it's not, it's —"

"My colleague Professor Sinistra assures me that, due to the rotation of the earth beneath our feet hurtling through space around the great, smiling face in the sky that we call the sun, it is _always_ tea time. Somewhere, at least."

"Er, well, be that as it may, I have a matter of some importance to discuss with you," McGonagall said, desperately trying to regain the initiative. "It's about the Mirror, and ... something else as well."

"I see," Dumbledore said gravely, all appearances of a foolish old man suddenly gone. Harry had never seen the Headmaster look so serious before. "Go on."

"Perhaps it would be best if Mister Potter explained," the Deputy Headmistress said.

"Very well. What's happened, Harry?" Dumbledore asked.

As Harry nervously told his story, he noticed that Milo appeared to be sweating nervously.

"So, in short, you think you're all being influenced by the Mirror of Erised?" Dumbledore asked.

"Is that what it's called?" Harry asked.

"It is, indeed," Dumbledore said. "And, it appears, I shall have to have it moved from its temporary home. If it will put your mind at rest, the Mirror, while extremely powerful, does _not_ have the ability to directly control the actions of those who gaze upon it — not to say that having their heart's desires revealed to them isn't a form of influence in itself."

"Oh," Harry said, greatly relieved.

"Still," Dumbledore said, "you can't be too careful, I suppose. If you would be so good as to wait here a moment?" Without waiting for a reply, the Headmaster stood up from his desk to walk over to one of his shelves of ticking silver devices on the wall.

"Ah," he said after rummaging about for a moment or two, "here we are. I've always been meaning to try this one out." Blowing what seemed to be generations of accumulated dust off of a complicated-looking spindly silver thing that Harry could only, in all honesty, accurately describe as a 'gizmo,' Dumbledore returned to his desk and sat down heavily. He placed the gizmo on the polished wooden surface where it made an ominous _thud_ that seemed much louder than an object of its apparent mass would make. It had spiky protrusions. It had bits that whirled around for no apparent reason. It had twists and turns and knobs and dials. It had what looked uncomfortably like a dentist's drill only more, well, _eldritch_.

"But, Headmaster —" McGonagall began, looking astonished.

"Not now, Minerva," Dumbledore said, brushing aside whatever her protest was. "This," he said to Harry, Ron, and Milo with a dramatic flourish, "is the, De ... bewitcher of, er, Destiny."

"I'm sorry, the —" McGonagall began.

"Yes, the Debewitcher of Destiny. It's for, near as I can figure, revealing the presence of any form of magic that allows mental control, up to and including a certain Unforgivable curse."

"But detecting the Imperius Curse is all but impossible," Milo protested.

"Indeed, without the Debewitcher of Doom, it _is_ impossible," Dumbledore agreed.

"Wasn't it called the Debewitcher of Destiny?" Ron asked.

"It's very versatile," Dumledore shrugged. "Now, who shall I use it on first?" As he spoke, he adjusted several knobs and dials on the device, which made its drill extension whir in an ominous fashion.

"I'm not going _near_ that thing," Ron said stubbornly. "What would it do if we were, you know, bewitched? Not that we are, of course."

"Well," Dumbledore said, scratching his beard as he thought. "To be honest, I'm not completely certain. To the best of my knowledge, this dial here controls the severity of the Debewitcher's effect," he said, gesturing at a particularly large, unmarked dial. "It goes anywhere from simply revealing the identity of the guilty party to having the earth itself rise up and swallow the culprit whole."

Ron gave a low whistle.

"The only problem is, the dial is unmarked. Now, of course, the normal convention is for dials to turn them to the left for their lowest setting , but, as I'm sure you can tell, the designer of this particular device was quite clearly bonkers. So, just to be safe, I'm turning it all the way to the right." As he did so, the whirring of the drill-end increased to a frightening pace, and parts of the machine were pumping up and down now at a rate that was shaking the floor. "Ah," Dumbledore said. "See? Perfectly safe."

Harry swallowed nervously. Ron's face was white, and Milo licked his suddenly-dry lips.

"I-I'll go first," Harry said. He'd rather do almost anything other than go _near_ that deathtrap of a machine, but he _had_ to know if the Mirror was controlling him. Also, it set a good precedent for Ron and _particularly _Milo. Once he'd done it and (hopefully) survived, they couldn't very well back out.

"Then, if you would just place your palm here," Dumbledore said, pointing at a flat disc on one of the Debewitcher's spindly arms. Harry complied, taking care not to go anywhere near the more dangerous-looking appendages. There was a tense second or two as Harry waited for the results. The machine didn't, as far as Harry could tell, give any sort of feedback, but eventually Dumbledore broke the silence. "Well," he said, "it seems that you are, fortunately, no less — or more, for that matter — yourself than you usually are." Harry sighed with relief, collapsing into a nearby chair. "Now, Mister Weasley," Dumbledore said, turning to Ron. "If you would ...?"

Ron gulped audibly, but put his now-heavily-sweating palm on the disc. To his relief, nothing happened.

"See?" he said to Harry, pulling his hand away from the machine. "I'm fine, just like I said."

"And Mister Amastacia-Liadon," Dumbledore said, turning to Milo. "It's your turn."

"But I'm not possessed," he said stubbornly.

"I'm sure you're not," Dumbledore replied. "But, nevertheless, your two friends were brave enough to try it. Surely you — as, by your own admission, a hero — would be willing to do the same?"

"This is pointless," he muttered. "I'm sure we all have _much_ more important things to be doing — especially you, headmaster, as Supreme Mugwump on _top_ of being Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot — than entertaining a boy's delusions. I mean, you yourself said the Mirror can't —"

"You got his titles right," Harry said suddenly.

"Sorry, what?" Milo asked coolly.

"You get _everything's_ name wrong," Harry said, backing away slowly.

"I don't —"

"You once called him the Supreme Muggle instead of Mugwump, and called the Chudley Cannons _Cuddly_. I've never heard you get _two_ polysyllabic names right in the same sentence before."

"Well, maybe I thought it was funny then, but now things are impor—"

"You trapped Mordy in your Belt."

"He was being unruly," Milo said defensively. "He bit me. See?" Milo peeled off one of his weird blue gloves to show a small bite mark between his thumb and index finger.

"Maybe," Harry said skeptically. "He bit you because you're bewitched after all."

"I'm _not _—"

"Then put your hand in the machine and prove it," Harry said.

"_Fine_," Milo snapped, and stepped towards Dumbledore's desk. He reached slowly towards the machine with four sets of eyes boring into him slowly. Just as he was about to place his hand on the disc, he spun around. "_Summon Hipp_—"

"No," Dumbledore said quietly. There was no threat, no malice, and no particular volume to his words. He wasn't even holding his wand. Nevertheless, Milo blinked in amazement as his spell fizzled out in front of him.

"_How_ did you —" he began, then noticed the large number of wands pointed at him. "Ah," he said. "I see."

o—o—o—o

"_Enervate_," Milo heard a voice say. In a panic, he rolled to the side and tried to stumble to his feet.

"Don't you _dare_," he said, feeling dizzy. The whole Material Plane seemed to be spinning in a somewhat concerning manner, and everything more than a few feet away was an indistinct blur. He didn't envy his chances of succeeding the requisite Concentration check to cast a spell given his current status.

"I was just —" the voice said again.

"_Enervation_, eh?" Milo asked, trying to hide just how dazed he was. "You can keep your 1d4 negative levels, if you please, and tell me what the _Hells_ is going on. Or... or else," he finished lamely.

"I think we've got him back," someone else said.

"Blimey, you reckon?" a third voice said sarcastically.

"If 'onety-four' is a number," a female voice said sternly, "then I shall eat my hat. I believe the word you were searching for was _fourteen_."

"Everyone, stop trying to be witty," Milo said, his vision growing somewhat clearer, "and give me a straight answer."

"You were controlled by the Imperius curse for an unknown duration by an unknown party," a grandfatherly voice that Milo recognized instantly as Dumbledore's said. "But were discovered by your good friend Harry Potter who, in a notably rare act of sensibility for a Gryffindor, immediately did the sensible thing and told the good Deputy Headmistress. Thirty points for Gryffindor, Harry, by the way. In, what if I dare say was a characteristic fit of quick thinking, I then managed to convince you — and, more importantly, whomever was controlling you — that I could reveal the identity of your controller with this fifteen-hundred-year-old magical juicer. You were presumably ordered to attack us, and Minerva, regrettably, was forced to subdue you."

"Oh," said Milo, as the memory came back to him. The room was starting to stabilize, but Milo decided he'd be perfectly happy staying on blessedly solid the floor for a while nonetheless. "Then why did you try to cast _Enervation_ on me?"

"_Enervate_, Milo, not _Enervation_," Dumbledore corrected.

"Demons and Tanar'ri," Milo shrugged. "Same thing."

"While I have lived for quite some time and accumulated no small amount of knowledge of magic, I do not know of this _Enervation_ spell of which you speak — fittingly, since I presume it is from your world. _Enervate_, however, is a harmless, yet rather unfortunately named spell to wake up those rendered asleep or unconscious by magic."

"Then why did they call it a word that means to suck energy _out_ of something?" Milo asked curiously.

"Everyone makes mistakes," Dumbledore said with the slightest of shrugs. "I'm led to believe that some people at the ministry are working on a functionally identical spell with a more appropriate name. But I digress. I don't suppose there's any chance that you can identify the culprit?"

"Sorry," Milo said. His vision had cleared to the point where he could clearly make out Dumbledore, Harry, Ron, and Professor McGongall's faces. "I was in the hallway near the Mirror when I thought I thought I noticed something, so I cast a spell that detects minds. It told me there were twelve sentient minds nearby, although I couldn't see any of them. Before I could find out more, I heard someone whisper '_Imperio'_, and then, well, you know the rest. Oh, speaking of," he said, unbuttoning the pouch that Mordy was trapped in. "Sorry, little guy," he said to his friend. "It's okay, now."

"The minds that the spell detected," Dumbledore pressed. "Are you quite sure they were _sentient_? As in, human-level intelligence?"

"Er," Milo said, trying to remember the spell description. "Anything living that's as smart or smarter than a newt."

"Could it have simply been the wall portraits?" Dumbledore asked. "I daresay, the one that guards Ravenclaw tower is a good deal smarter than a newt."

"No," Milo said. "Those are probably Constructs — er, magically animated objects — and therefore immune to the spell. So whatever they were, they were invisible."

"In fact, that is most unlikely," Dumbledore said. "The ability to become _truly_ invisible, at least in _our_ world, is extremely rare. It is more likely that these twelve persons or creatures unknown were hidden with, say, a remarkably good Disillusionment Charm." _Oh_, Milo thought. _So _that's_ why _See Invisibility_ only worked on the Cloak. Go figure._

"One last question," Milo asked. "Actually, make that _two_ questions."

"Very well," Dumbledore said. "I will answer to within the confines of our earlier agreement."

"The first: how did you interrupt my spell? I'd assumed our different types of magic were basically incompatible."

"Oh, it was quite simple, really," Dumbledore admitted. "I simply used magic of a different sort. I reasoned that, since you once told me that you had worked and studied for your magic — rather than, say, being born into it — that it required a certain degree of mental fortitude and concentration to use, much like our magic."

"So you just..."

"Over the years, I've acquired something of a reputation for myself — most of it undeserved, of course — and I've found that a certain type of wizard, especially dark wizards, seem to believe me capable of almost anything. So, I simply commanded you to stop, and you, believing I actually had the power to do so, complied."

"What would you have done if that hadn't worked?" Milo asked.

"Ah," Dumbledore said with a slight twinkle in his eye. "In that case, I would have done nothing."

"Nothing?" Milo asked, shocked. "Then the Hippogriff would have torn you to pieces."

"I daresay not," Dumbledore said. "Minerva would have Stunned you well before you finished casting your spell. Now, as to your second question...?"

"Right," Milo said. "What the _Hells_ was that Mirror?"

"Ah, the Mirror of Erised," Dumbledore said. "It shows the heart's deepest, and sometimes, unfortunately, _darkest_ desire. Nothing more, and nothing less. I strongly urge you to put it out of your minds, for men have wasted away obsessing over it. Needless to say, it shall be moved to a more safe location as soon as possible."

"Good idea," Milo said, remembering the disturbing images the Mirror had shown him. "Now, if someone will help me to the hospital wing, I'm going to stay there until I've made an amulet of _Protection From Evil_ for everyone and their cousin."


	22. Chapter 22: The Chessmaster

Author's Notes: Thank everyone for the increasingly positive flood of reviews! Hope you enjoy reading this next chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Also, I'm going to experiment with chapterly-updated character sheets now that I can copy-paste them. Here's this one (replace the asterisks with periods): myth-weavers*com/sheetview*php?sheetid=444154

EDIT: Wow, there were about a million embarrassingly obvious typos, grammatical errors, and repeated sentences in the first version. Sorry, guys! I think I caught most of them. Yikes.

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

The remainder of the week was, for Milo, blissfully uneventful. Classes resumed, and with them the hustle and bustle of several hundred Hogwarts students returning from their vacation. Pleading illness (and who was qualified to disagree with him?), Milo, true to his word, sequestered himself in the hospital wing with Neville (Hannah, after a few days of rest and dozens of different healing Charms and potions, was deemed fit to return to school) frantically crafting Amulets of Protection From Evil and researching _Kelgore's Fire Bolt_.

It was here that Milo ran into a small problem of mathematics: it took two days, hundreds of Galleons of owl-ordered supplies (Milo found he could affray these costs somewhat by supplies nicked from Potions), and eighty Experience Points to make each amulet. Milo really didn't know much about the demographics of this plane (all he'd seen was a bit of Hogsmeade, Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, and, of course, Hogwarts) but there were probably several _thousand_ wizards and witches out there. Even ruling out protecting the entire population and focussing on those who posed an imminent threat to Milo — anyone nearby who possessed a wand, had a drop of magical blood, could see lightning and hear thunder — the number of Amulets required was insanely unrealistic.

"This is just so _backwards_," Milo muttered after, upon reaching the end of the week, completing only his third Amulet of Protection From Evil. The problem was that an Imperius'd wizard or witch was more of a threat to those _around_ them than to themselves, so Milo, in order to protect _himself_, had to equip anyone and everyone _around him _with expensive amulets. The problem, however, was that Magic Item crafting benefited from _no _economy of scale whatsoever: if it took two thousand gold pieces and two days to make one Amulet of Protection From Evil, it would take two hundred thousand gold pieces and two hundred days to make a hundred of them. While Harry was rich, Milo doubted he was quite _that_ rich. At some point, Milo was going to have to start paying him back for the (rather enormous) loan.

"What's backwards?" a familiar voice said. Milo turned to the door to see Hermione standing there, a tray of steaming hot soup in her hands.

"Hey!" Milo said. "I was wondering when you'd drop by."

"Sorry," Hermione said apologetically. "I was going to come earlier, but, well, it's the first week back and I didn't want to get behind — I mean, I only had time over the break to reread _A History of Magic_, _Magical Drafts and Potions_, _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_, and _Magical Theory_! I'm dangerously behind in _The Standard Book of Spells_ and _A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration_!" Hermione pulled herself together with visible effort. "But, my responsibility as a friend outweighs even academic concerns," she said officiously. "Well, at least, in an emergency. And except in exam period."

"Well, thanks," Milo said. "Just set the soup down on the bedside table."

"So," Hermione said after doing just that, "just how badly were you injured, anyway? I remember after the Troll you were on your feet in no time, and, well, you were in pretty bad shape that time, so... I mean, are you all right?"

"Yeah, totally fine," Milo shrugged. "But if Pomfrey asks, I need another day of complete bed rest to, and make sure you get this right, 'regenerate my recuperative and restorative healing abilities and realign my _ki_ power pool or die.'"

"You could _die?_"

"Nope," Milo said. "I made all that stuff up."

"You're... you're _skiving!_" Hermione accused, aghast.

"Well, _duh_. But it's for a good cause — which reminds me..." Milo fished out the three Amulets of Protection From Evil from his magic belt. "_Arcane Mark_, _Arcane Mark_,_ Arcane Mark_,_ Arcane Mark_,_ Arcane Mark_,_ Arcane Mark_," he cast repeatedly, placing a pair of unique symbols on each amulet for later identification. One symbol on each amulet was a faintly glowing rune which was, using Milo's magic anyways, virtually impossible for anyone else to duplicate. The local magic was largely one giant unknown, however, so Milo also put an invisible version of the mark on each amulet as a backup — one that _only _Milo could see, and even then, only when he cast _See Invisibility_ first. If someone out there (_*cough* _Snape_ *cough*_) tried to switch the amulets for forgeries, _and_ they somehow managed to duplicate the decoy mark, they wouldn't even _know_ about the invisible one.

"What was that all about?" Hermione asked.

"For later identification," Milo said. "I mark all my stuff that way, comes in handy more than you'd think. Here, put this on," Milo handed her one of the amulets.

"Er, it's, um, pretty?" Hermione tried, desperately, to sound delighted, but the fact was that the amulets were little more than small silver discs on a thin, but sturdy, steel chain.

"Is it?" Milo asked. "Aesthetics were never my strong suit, to be honest. Appearances aside, that right there's what we in the business call a Magic Item."

"What's magic about it?" Hermione asked, examining it curiously.

"Makes you immune to the Imperius Curse," Milo said nonchalantly.

"Sorry," Hermione said. "Could you say that again? See, here I thought you said that this little necklace is supposed to protect you against one of the darkest, most powerful Curses in existence."

"Yeah," Milo said. "And any other mind-affecting magic, also. Just make sure you keep it on at _all _times, and give this other one to Harry. I'll have Ron's done sometime tomorrow."

Hermione stared at Milo, evidently trying to decide if he was joking or not.

"You're serious, aren't you?" she asked. "I mean, I'd heard from Ron that you had a spell that did something like that _temporarily_, but this... This is _big_, do you understand? Really big."

"Well, I guess? I mean, it's pretty trivial magic where I'm from."

"_Blocking the Imperius Curse is trivial?_" Hermione exclaimed. "From what I've read, during the last war, the other side managed to infiltrate the Ministry at _every_ level, and we're _still_ not sure who was bewitched and who was a volunteer. It was utter _chaos_, and You-Know-Who nearly toppled the entire government that way. It takes _exceptional_ willpower — as in, one person in _hundreds_ — or _years_ of training to resist. How could preventing something like that _possibly_ be trivial?"

"I figure it's something like Transfiguration. Using Arcane magic — my magic, that is — turning a matchstick into a pin requires an _extremely _powerful spell. And healing injuries like Pomfrey can do with a wave and a word is nigh impossible. On the other hand, I can see right through Harry's super-rare and expensive Invisibility Cloak without much difficulty because, well, for us, mere Invisibility is an everyday sort of thing. Ironically, it's the inferior Disillusionment Charm that I can't beat. Which actually reminds me of something, Hermione, that I was going to ask you," Milo said.

"Oh?"

"Do you know of any spells that can change someone's heart's desire, if only temporarily?"

"What does _that_ have to do with the Disillusionment Charm?" Hermione asked, perplexed.

"Long story. But can it be done?"

"Let's see..." Hermione scratched her chin, deep in thought. "I presume you're talking about the Mirror? It really depends on what, exactly, 'heart's desire' means. With a decent Confundus Charm — or maybe even after being Obliviated, which leaves the target in a highly suggestive state — you can definitely force someone to want something. Whether that counts as your new 'heart's desire,' however, I think is a matter of interpretation."

"Ah," Milo was crushed by disappointment. He'd hoped to trick the Mirror of Erised into showing him whatever he needed to see, but he was pretty sure that he'd destroyed his chances of getting a favourable outcome in any 'matter of interpretation' when he tried to use Spontaneous Divination to mimic a Cleric spell.

"However," Hermione said, looking thoughtful. "It's possible — _unlikely_, mind, but _possible_ — that a sufficiently powerful Love potion might have the desired effect."

"A Love potion." Milo said flatly.

"It basically comes down to how, well, _fluffy_ one interprets the meaning of 'heart's desire' to be. Will someone who is madly in love, but drugged by a potion into loving someone else see their 'one true love,' or the person who is pressing on their minds at that very moment? The answer to that, I really couldn't tell you. Seems more up Professor Dumbledore's alley, to be honest. It's all academic, in any case. Harry said he was going to move the Mirror, I doubt we'll ever see it again."

"Of course we will!" Milo said. "It's on the List. If it wasn't going to pop up again later for something important, why would we have seen it after Christmas? It would have been a complete waste of everyone's time."

"You have a _very _unusual view of the world," Hermione said, her tone making it perfectly clear how she felt about that.

"It's never led me astray yet," Milo said defensively.

"Now _that_ is a matter of some debate," she said. "Oh, also, McGonagall told us that Dumbledore officially pardoned the Gryffindor house for assaulting the Slytherins in Potions. Apparently we've fallen precipitously behind even Hufflepuff, not that there's anything wrong with them, in our courses because of all the detentions."

"Well, _that's_ a relief," Milo said. "I _badly_ need that time for spell research. There just aren't enough hours in the day."

"Tell me about it," Hermione said sympathetically. "I don't see _how_ I'm going to fit all the courses I want onto my schedule in third year," she said. "Which reminds me — I _really_ need to get back to studying."

After she left, Milo returned to work on Ron's Amulet. He'd have to spend most of the rest of today and tomorrow on it, but Sunday...

...Sunday was saved for Quirrell's Duelling Club.

o—o—o—o

"S-s-some of you are p-p-probably wondering w-why the D-D-Defence P-Professor would start a D-Duelling Club," Quirrell stammered to the assembled students. Roughly one-third of the entire student body had signed up for his Club, from first-years to seventh-years, and stood assembled in the Great Hall. "B-because whatever you c-could learn in this c-club, surely, I c-could teach you in y-your regular c-c-course?" Milo blinked. He hadn't been wondering that at all; he'd mostly been wondering how much longer he had to wait before magically curbstomping some local 'wizards.' "Well, the d-d-difference between D-Defence Against the D-Dark Arts and D-D-Duelling lies in y-your opponent. C-can anyone t-tell me what a Red C-Cap, a Werewolf, a Dementor, a D-Doxie, a B-Boggart, and even a V-V-V-Vampire have in c-common?"

Students shuffled their feet, glancing at one another, trying to determine any similarity between these extremely disparate creatures.

"What's the answer to this one?" Ron whispered hopefully to Hermione.

"I don't know!" she whispered back, her eyes looking somewhat wild. "It's not in any of our textbooks, and most of those creatures aren't covered until third year or higher!"

Somewhere near the front, an NPC raised his hand.

"Yes, C-C-Cedric?" Quirrell asked the boy.

"They're not human," he said simply. "And they all have some sort of weakness to memorize, or a vulnerability to a particular Charm or Curse."

"C-correct," Quirrell stammered, "and ten p-points for Hufflepuff." There was some astonished murmuring from the ranks — a _Hufflepuff_ (not that there's anything wrong with them, great people, by the way) answered a question about _Defence_ and got it _right?_ Who _was_ this boy? "In short," Quirrell continued, "as l-l-long as you're prepared and r-r-reasonably alert, most m-magical creatures pose l-little threat to a q-qualified wizard or w-witch. Now, who c-can tell me how fighting another w-wizard or w-w-witch is different?"

Again, it was Cedric who raised his hand first.

"Because, in theory, a wizard fighting another wizard is a fair fight," the handsome Hufflepuff explained. "They both have access to the same spells, and since every spell — Unforgivables aside, of course — can be countered in some fashion, it comes down to the differences between the individual witches or wizards in question."

"C-correct again," Quirrell said. "A-and another t-ten points for Hufflepuff. N-now, to the c-c-crux of the m-matter, what is the f-factor that will d-determine which w-wizard will prevail?"

This time, nearly every student in the hall raised their hand.

"Yes, Mister M-Malfoy?" Quirrell asked Draco, who was standing near the front, surrounded by a gaggle of Slytherins, as always.

"Blood purity and raw magical power," Draco said simply.

"I-interesting," Quirrell said. "And what s-say you, Miss G-Granger?"

"Practicing the most advanced spells," Hermione answered, "so that they can be cast reliably and effectively even under stressful circumstances."

"And y-you again, M-Mister D-Diggory?"

"Having friends and allies you can trust," Cedric said. "Something that Dark Wizards always lack, which is why they are _always_ defeated."

"A t-true H-Hufflepuff answer," Quirrell said. "I'm s-sure H-Helga h-herself w-would agree w-with you wholeheartedly."

Milo realized that, while Quirrell _seemed_ to be choosing people from the crowd completely at random, a suspiciously large number of them — that is to say, _all_ of them — seemed to be PCs or major NPCs.

"Put Cedric on the List," Milo whispered to Harry. "We'll be seeing more of him, count on it."

"M-Mister P-P-Potter," Quirrell said, "the only w-wizard here to s-survive an encounter w-with Y-Y-You-Know-Who. W-what w-would you say is the s-s-secret to your s-success?"

Harry, almost alone among the Hogwarts students, _hadn't_ raised his hand.

"Um," he said. "Well, I mean, I don't really know. So... I would have to say luck. A million factors that neither wizard really knows about come into play, and could result in, well, like you said. Me surviving against You-Know-Who."

"A-and what about you, M-Mister M-Milo of the lengthy last name?" Quirrell asked. "What determines the victor?" _Hmm,_ Milo thought. _Good question. Most people would say the highest level wizard wins, but that's not always true, now is it? A high-level Wizard optimized for basketweaving and lute-playing would be crushed by a properly-optimized lower-level Wizard._

"The wizard who memorizes and casts the most appropriate spells wins," Milo said. "Unless, like Harry said, the other one rolls a well-timed twenty. Er, that is, gets in an exceptionally lucky shot. But you can't count on that."

"Indeed you c-cannot," Quirrell said, "which b-brings me to the m-most important f-factor in a d-d-duel," he paused dramatically, letting everyone wonder what he was going to was going to say. "_Strategy_. As any spell — w-with the obvious exceptions, of c-c-course — c-can be c-countered, the d-duel goes t-to whichever wizard that _d-doesn't_ m-make the f-first mistake. C-Curses, H-Hexes, Charms, and their c-counters can all be t-taught, learned, and p-p-practised in a straightforward m-manner — which we w-will g-get to, in g-g-good t-time — but g-good strategy, and thinking q-quickly on your f-f-feet cannot be w-without m-much difficulty. S-so th-that is where we w-will start." Quirrell gave his wand a complicated little wave and the Great Hall tables rolled into the centre of the room from their resting places at the edges. "And there is no better way to develop strategy than with chess." Sitting on the tables were hundreds of neatly-placed wizard chess sets with a pair of small red tags sitting next to each. "Everyone g-grab a p-partner and a tag," Quirrell said. "The w-winner of the m-match t-t-takes the loser's t-tag and challenges s-someone with a l-like number of t-tags. The l-losers will k-keep playing a-against other l-losers until they r-realize their m-mistake. W-we w-will continue until w-we find the b-best strategist, and therefore d-duellist, a-among you."

The Hogwarts students stared up at Quirrell in a stunned silence.

"Chess," Malfoy said flatly. "We're going to play _chess_. Why are we listening to this stuttering idiot, anyways? He's afraid of his own _shadow_."

"H-have you ever entered a n-nest of v-vampires, M-Mister M-M-Malfoy," Quirrell asked, "and s-survived w-with only a st-st-stutter to show f-for it?"

"Well —"

"N-no," Quirrell interrupted. "You h-have not. Y-you will either p-pick a p-partner, Mister M-Malfoy, or y-you will l-leave and w-w-wonder for the n-next t-twenty years why you are the w-w-worst d-duellist of your g-generation."

"Why twenty years?" Draco asked despite himself.

"An optimistic estimate of your l-lifespan should you ch-choose to f-forgo these l-lessons."

Malfoy paled and sat down across from Goyle, clipping a red tag to his lapel.

"This is ridiculous," Milo muttered to Hermione, his chess partner. "Skill Ranks in Profession (Chessmaster) have _no_ bearing on one's ability to stomp squishy wizards."

"See, the thing is," Hermione said, "I know what all of those words mean in and of themselves, but the way you string them together... it's like someone handed a book of Mad Libs to a Confunded Troll."

"I'm a Confunded Troll, am I?" Milo asked with a slight edge in his voice. "Well _you're_ blind to the story unfolding before your very eyes."

"Blind?" Hermione asked, a dangerous glint entering her eyes. "No, _you're_ just convinced this is some storybook fairytale land where everything happens for a _reason_. And not a good reason, mind, but a _stupid_, trite, clichéd reason."

"Not a story," Milo said, placing his pieces on the board, "an _adventure_. Completely different school of magic."

"Real life does _not_ have adventures!" Hermione said, her voice growing louder. "It has rules, responsible adults, homework, and grades!"

"I think we've more or less exhausted the possibilities of this conversation," Milo said coolly. "Roll for Initiative, _bookworm_."

Hermione, playing white, naturally won Initiative. She sent one of her Commoners forwards, breaking their naturally defensive spear-wall and leaving her Aristocrats vulnerable to a cavalry charge from Milo's flanking Knights.

"My left and right Clerics cast _Wall of Stone_ and _Flame Strike_, respectively," Milo declared, "while the Commoners garrison these towers and ready an action to provide covering fire should any white soldiers enter range of their crossbows. The Knights run up to _this _position," he placed the two horses near Hermione's Clerics to Attack of Opportunity them should they try to cast anything, "and my Aristocrats take a full defence action."

"Er," Hermione said. "You can only move one piece on your turn."

"Oh, we're tracking individual Initiatives? Okay. In that case, _Flame Strike_. Let's see some Reflex Saves, now, shall we?"

"Why me?" Hermione asked the air dramatically. "Why? What did I ever do to deserve this? You know what? _Here_. Just take my tag, I forfeit. It's just not worth it. I'll go play with Neville in the corner." Hermione stalked off as Milo clipped Hermione's tag to his robes under his own.

"One down," he smirked. "Four hundred to go."

"Blimey," said one of Milo's Clerics. "I don't think you quite understand how this works, do you?"

"_Holy Crap!_ You can _talk?_"

o—o—o—o

It didn't take long for Ron to win a small hoard of victory tags (crushing Milo mercilessly in the process), leaving him with only one opponent in his level: Cedric Diggory, the Uber-Hufflepuff.

The hundreds of defeated students gathered around, causing such a disturbance that Milo conjured up a massive illusory chess set in the air that mimicked Ron's and Cedric's moves. The game progressed largely in silence, save for the occasional "check" from either player, as the two masters stared at the board in deep concentration.

The game had already lasted longer than the rest of the tournament put together, with the two of them sometimes taking up to fifteen minutes to make a single move. It was Cedric's turn, and, after what seemed like years of careful consideration, he moved his remaining bishop forwards.

"Check," he said, finally.

Ron moved like lightening, slamming his rook into place.

"Check _mate_, mate," Ron exclaimed exuberantly.

"Ah, shame," Cedric said, but it was with a smile that he passed over his original tag. "Good game though, eh?"

"Best I've ever played," Ron said sincerely.

"And th-th-there you have it," Quirrell stammered to the crowd. "The most b-b-brilliant master st-strategist, and, I'm s-sure, a-accomplished d-d-duellist, of the st-student b-b-body is none other than M-M-Mister R-R-Ronald Weasley."

"_Weasley?_" Malfoy scoffed. "_Brilliant? _Hufflepuff will win the House Cup before _Weasley_ learns to tie his _shoes_ properly."

"C-c-class dismissed," Quirrell said with a wave. "W-W-Weasley, can I t-t-talk to you f-for a m-moment?"

"Uh," Ron said, looking somewhat panicked. "Sure, I guess."

"N-n-next time," Quirrell said to everyone, "w-we're learning E-Expelliarmus."

o—o—o—o

Milo followed Harry and Hermione back to the Common Room, where he sat in the corner working on Hannah's Amulet. _I need to find a faster way of making these_, he thought impatiently, etching a minute arcane rune onto a Sickle destined for melting into the final medallion.

"Well," Harry said, putting aside his History of Magic textbook, "that was sort of unexpected, don't you think?"

"What, Quirrell's club?" Hermione asked.

"Yeah," Harry said. "That man's off his rocker, I swear. Still... if it helps me learn to fight, well, I suppose it'll be worth it."

"I agree," Milo said. "Whatever happened to him over the summer's definitely unhinged him. And this '_chess_' is hardly an adequate simulation of realistic battlefield conditions — I mean, why in the Hells can the heavy cavalry only move in right angles? It makes no _sense!_"

"You're just sore because the rules can't be gamed," Hermione smirked. "Which, incidentally, is why it's so popular. You have to use actual strategy and tactics."

"Strategy _is_ gaming the rules," Milo responded. "It's analyzing the situation and seizing any and every possible advantage, even if it's completely ridiculous on the surface. Why, I once met this Half-Ogre who managed to defeat an entire Legion of the Tharllian Empire's best troops with a Spiked Chain because —"

"I'm sorry," Hermione said, looking sick. "Did you say Half-_Ogre_?"

Before Milo could answer, Ron entered the Common Room through the portal with a chess set in his hands.

"Oi!" Harry said. "What did Quirrell want?"

"To play chess," Ron answered happily. "Weird, eh? He said he wants to test his skills against a worthy opponent, so every other day I make a move against him and every _other_ other day he makes one against me. He gave me this chess set," Ron held up his new set, "which is linked to the one in his office. If I make a move here, he sees it there, and vice-versa. Cool, eh?"

"Why so slow?" Hermione asked. "If he wanted to test your duelling aptitude, shouldn't you be playing speed chess?"

"Or using actual _magic?_" Milo added.

"He said that this way, I'll have as much time as I need to think out my move and make sure I make the right one," Ron shrugged. "He says it's more interesting that way. He implied that he hadn't had a decent sparring partner in years."

"Seems a bit late in the plot for him to suddenly develop such a major character trait as 'chess grand-master,'" Milo mused. "I wonder what he's up to?"

Hermione glanced at Ron and rotated her finger slowly around her ear in the universally-accepted sign for 'crazy.'

"Maybe he just really likes chess?" Harry suggested. "I mean, it's not like we would have had a chance to see it in action before, right?"

"I suppose... but, even so. Harry: add 'chess' to the List, and Ron: _win_ that game against Quirrell."

"Why?" Ron asked. "Well, I mean, I was planning to anyway, but why is it important?"

"I don't know exactly," Milo said. "I just have a gut feeling that something important is riding on that match," he said, "and, as a rule of thumb, winning _always_ leads to the more desirable outcome — and with it, the best swag."

"Okay, well, I'll do my best," Ron said.

"And I'd best get to Quidditch practice," Harry said, rising from his armchair. "We're playing Hufflepuff on Saturday, and Wood's gone into mad slavemaster mode again."

"This was nice," Hermione said, relaxing in her chair.

"What was?" Milo asked.

"A whole weekend went by and nobody was hospitalized," she said.

"Except Neville, of course," Milo said.

"Right, except Neville. Sad business, that. I had _no idea_ a bishop could do that to a person. Still, be nice if every weekend was like this, but, I suppose that'd just be wishful thinking."

Despite Hermione's complacent attitude, Milo still felt something was wrong. This whole Duelling Club business smelled somewhat off to him, and he _still_ didn't know who the Dark Wizard who Imperius'd him and Hannah was, or what he wanted. Was it Snape, trying to kill Milo to remove an obstacle between him and the Stone? Or Lucius, stepping out from the shadows and getting his hands dirty personally? And _why_ had Milo been Imperius'd in the hallways — whoever had done it didn't seem to get much out of it. The whole attack seemed, in hindsight, remarkably poorly-planned... it was almost like they didn't _want _to succeed — or, alternatively, their goals were so obscure that Milo simply couldn't figure them out.

_Unless..._

Milo frowned. Once he'd been possessed, it didn't seem like his controller knew quite what to do with him. His orders had been vague and, seemingly, without purpose. Had it been one of the servants of the Dark Lord, surely, he'd be ordered to kill Harry or steal the Stone? If it was Lucius — or Snape for that matter — you'd think he'd be ordered to do something incriminating and be expelled (or, failing that, simply walk out of the school grounds to be captured). And what of those other eleven minds he'd detected?

On the whole, if that were some sort of strike against Milo or his allies, it had been a rather clumsy attempt. The more Milo thought about it, the more he was certain that he was looking at things backwards.

Suddenly, Milo felt as if a Wight had an icy hand around his heart.

"Hermione," Milo said slowly. "What were the methods you suggested for changing someone's heart's desire?"

"Are you still on that?" she asked, racking her memory. "Love potions, the Confundus Charm, or a Memory Charm. Why?"

"What, _exactly_, is a Memory Charm?" Milo asked, but he was sure he knew the answer already. Back on Hallowe'en, when Milo touched the Remembrall...

"It's an advanced spell that wipes someone's memory of a duration of time," she explained. "A skilled user can replace them with false memories altogether. I wouldn't worry about it, though," she said reassuringly.

"Why not?" Milo asked, feeling somewhat mollified.

"We don't have to learn them until Seventh Year," she said happily.

Milo cursed sulfurously and nearly ran for the exit.

"Wait!" Hermione called. "Where are you going?"

"To see Neville," Milo said.


	23. Chapter 23: The Duelling Club

Today's character sheet: myth-weavers com/sheetview php?sheetid=447028 (Replace the spaces with periods)

(Extra Long) Author's Notes (feel free to skip them, there's nothing particularly important): This weekend, I decided that now might be a good time to go back and reread some of my earlier chapters and make sure I didn't have any plot threads I'd left hanging. While I was at it, I thought, I could make improvements to the start of the story using what I'd writing the rest of it.

This proved to be a colossal mistake. A number of wiser and better writers than me tell me that it is _universal_ among writers to be embarrassed by anything they've ever written, but I never really believed it until now. The first chapter of this story is _terrible_. It is _shamefully bad_. I can't imagine how _any_ of you managed to stand it (but I'm glad you did).

I got three pages in and closed the lid of my laptop by reflex as a defence mechanism to get the _horror away_. That said, I managed to change a sentence in which I used Milo's name twice (pronouns FTW) and posted the edit, so that's something.

/Horrified Rant.

On a completely different topic, I've had a large number of reviews and messages asking me similar questions, so I think I'll make an official sort of FAQ statement now:

**Q: Does D&D (the tabletop game) exist in the world of Harry Potter and the Natural 20?  
A: **No, it does not, and neither do its descendent spin-off RPGs. In any case, the story is set in the early nineties, and 3e wasn't released until 2000.

**Q: Will [insert HP character here] gain D&D class levels or powers? (Or, alternatively, will Milo gain HP wizard magic?)**  
**A:** No. Milo and [insert HP character] are an entirely different kind of human that follow an entirely different set of laws of the universe. Milo is closer to a Muggle or Squib than a wizard, and HP-world characters do not gain experience points.

**Q: Why doesn't Milo invent a spell (or feat) that does X?  
A:** I'm avoiding having Milo invent new spells (or feats, PrCs, etc.) altogether (that is, spells not present in any of the D&D core or splatbooks) because homebrew material involves a lot of DM discretion which to a certain extent negates the point (and fun) of min-maxing. Imagine Milo's world is run by a hardline Rules-As-Written DM who gets wrathful when anyone tries to push anything _too_ far.

**Q: Have you ever heard of/will you update to Pathfinder or 4e?**  
**A:** Pathfinder is a fantastic improvement of the 3.5 rules that I highly recommend to anyone and everyone; I'm not a fan of 4th edition for a number of reasons, but lots of people like it so I suppose it can't be all bad. That said, I'm staying strictly within the 3.5 rules because a) they're what I'm most familiar with, b) I'd feel bad about poking fun at a smaller company like Paizo (WOTC is fair game, though), and c) I feel that updating the rules partway through would detract from the story, screw with any readers that aren't major D&D fans, and necessitate a lot of jokes and fun-poking at the differences between 3.5 and 4 or 3.5 and Pathfinder, and generally detract from the jokes and fun-poking at the differences between Harry Potter and D&D3.5.

**Q: Will you do the whole series?  
A:** That's the plan.

**Q: What splatbook is Myra (City of Light! City of **_**Magic!**_**) and the Azel Empire from?  
A:** None of them. The names are pulled from campaigns I've DM'd over the years, but are otherwise completely original (or rather, completely unoriginal, seeing as how the Azel Empire is a deliberate cariciture of most campaign settings). The "City of Light! City of _Magic!_" line is a reference to The Elder Scrolls: Morrowind, in which the Mournhold city guards spout the line endlessly.

**Q: Is Milo (at least, at the start of the fic) an example of how **_**you**_** play D&D?  
A: **Only when I hate the DM.

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

"I think it's about time we had a little chat," Milo said, closing the office door behind him. "About what _really_ happened in the Forbidden Forest in September."

Quirrell slid his office chair backwards slightly, covering the motion of his hand as he covertly drew his wand.

"W-what about it?" he asked, his voice kept carefully neutral.

"There were always a few facts about that night that never quite added up to me," Milo said, ignoring the Professor. "For example — how did I get poisoned? The Acromantula never had a chance. How did the Acromantula die? The log I dropped on it wasn't _nearly_ enough to do the deed."

"It l-looked quite heavy t-to m-m-me," Quirrell stammered.

"It should have shrugged the log off and eaten me on the spot," Milo told him. "And it's body had no signs of prior injury, so it isn't like the log was enough to push it over the edge into negative hit points. No, something else killed that Acromantula. Something that kills its target without leaving a trace."

Quirrell tightened the grip on his wand beneath the desk.

"I-I don't —"

"Oh, I think you do," Milo said. "There's only _one_ spell that could do that, and, Hells, you used it against Fluffy. You're a hero for it, after all. The Killing Curse."

"W-what —"

"But the Curse is hardly stealthy, it has a signature bright green flash. The spider was right in front of me and it was pitch dark — there's no _possible _way I could have missed it."

"Y-you m-must have," Quirrell said. "Or r-rather, the Acromantula d-died s-some other —"

"No," Milo cut him off. "Don't you see? _I saw the spider killed_. A wizard did it right before my very eyes. He just walked right up, killed the Acromantula, and left. He cut off one of the spider's fangs — Acromantula venom is potent even after death, after all — and stabbed me in the stomach with it. I saw _everything_."

"Then w-why d-d-didn't you s-say so earlier?"

Milo reached into his robes, and Quirrell, surprised, nearly killed him on the spot. It was only the knowledge that Milo had no need of a wand to use magic that stayed his hands.

Of all things, it was a Remembrall that Milo withdrew from his pocket.

A Remembrall which shone like the sun.

"I was Memory Charmed."

"Th-that's hardly proof," Quirrell pointed out. "P-perhaps you s-simply f-f-forgot to b-brush your t-t-teeth l-last night?"

"I, like any self-respecting Arcanist, use _Prestidigitation_, which is quite beside the point. I can prove to you that it was no inconsequential memory that I've forgotten," Milo said calmly. "Describe the Remembrall for me, Professor."

"I d-d-don't understand," Quirrell said.

"It's quite simple. Just... a quick description of this ball will suffice."

Quirrell shrugged. _What's this boy's game?_

"It's a t-tennis b-ball s-s-sized c-clear g-g-glass ball f-full of smoke," Quirell said. "I-it t-turns red when the h-h-holder f-forgets something and c-clear when it is r-r-remembered."

"That's an awful lot of adjectives, Professor," Milo said with a slight grin. "At least four."

"S-so what?"

"And it first turned up months ago in a seemingly inconsequential manner — something unimportant about Harry joining the Quidditch team — and again on Hallowe'en, when it broke. Fortunately, one of Neville's supporting characters sent him a replacement. That makes this the third time it's turned up, Professor."

"This m-matters how?"

"Rule of Three. This here, judging by the amount of attention it's gathered, is a _very_ significant plot device. Why, it'd simply be a waste of time if it _didn't_ turn out to be important."

"_That's_ your proof?"

"I've seen men hanged for less in Myra — City of Light, City of _Magic!_"

"Even a-assuming this is t-t-true," Quirrell said, watching the boy closely, "w-who would d-do such a thing?"

"I think we _both_ know the answer to that question, Professor."

Quirrell tensed, ready to strike.

"It was, of course," Milo said, leaning forwards slightly, "none other than Professor Snape."

"S-Snape?" Quirrell asked. "H-how d-do you know?"

"Honestly, who else would it be?" Milo asked. "You can't shake a staff in this castle without finding an evil plot Snape's behind. I'm starting to think he's only still a teacher because of how _dull_ things would be without him."

"W-why wouldn't he j-just l-let the A-Acromantula k-kill you?" Quirrell asked.

"That's the bit I can't figure out," Milo admitted. "But I'm sure he'll be good enough to explain it in his villain monologue at the end."

"W-why are you t-telling me this?"

"Oh, simple. Snape can pull memories from my head, so I figure I should disseminate important information to trustworthy NPCs — as a sort of backup. Also, and I hate to say this, I'm starting to think I'll need all the help I can get. This situation is becoming... complicated, for a number of reasons. Gods, what I wouldn't give for a straightforward sidequest or monster hunt. In any event, I don't suppose you know of any way to cure Memory Charms?"

"S-sorry," Quirrell apologised. "I-I'm afraid they're g-generally q-quite permanent."

"Hells," Milo cursed. "And _Protection From Evil_ won't do a thing against them, either, based on Hermione's description, which means I'll need to think of something _clever_. Well, I suppose it can't be used on me as long as I've got my..." Milo trailed off for a second. "That's it!" he exclaimed, and headed back for the door.

"W-wait!" Quirrell called, but Milo, frustratingly, seemed suddenly oblivious to his existence.

o—o—o—o

"It was like an Attack of Opportunity," Milo explained to his party (and Hannah). "His plan wasn't to Imperius me to further his elaborate scheme; he Imperius'd me because I was _there_."

"Why?" Harry asked. Milo was standing in front of them in the Gryffindor Common Room, a revised version of The Plot hovering in the air, shimmering slightly.

"To prevent me from finding out what he was up to with his eleven Disillusioned friends," Milo answered. "He didn't know or _care_ about the Mirror. He just wanted me gone before I figured out what he was up to. It worked, too."

"So why not simply Stun you?" Hermione asked.

"Or even better, just finish you off for good?" Ron added.

"Or, even better, Memory Charm you — like you said he did after the Acromantula."

"I can't say for sure," Milo said, "but I think it's because he was hoping nobody would notice. A perfect crime, so to speak. Snape doesn't seem to be skilled enough at Memory Charms to replace the target's memories with false ones — at least, I hope he isn't, or we're all screwed — so I'd wake up wondering where the last several minutes went. Something which Mordy here would be all too happy to fill me in on. As for why he didn't kill me... well, he doesn't seem to want me dead anymore, for some reason — except when he does. He's very inconsistent, in fact."

"What do you mean?" Hannah asked.

"Well," Milo explained, "one day he wants me expelled and the next he's possessing you to kill me."

"Sorry about that," Hannah said quietly.

"It wasn't your fault," Milo said. "Just keep your amulet on, and you'll be fine." Milo had decided on impulse to give Hannah the Amulet of Protection From Evil that he'd reserved for himself, meaning he'd have to wait another two days for his. He still wasn't quite sure why he'd done it.

"I'm starting to wonder if something more complicated isn't going on," Milo said.

"Even _more_ complicated than _that?_" Ron groaned, pointing at The Plot.

"Snape's erratic attempts just aren't lining up anymore. If he _really_ wanted me resting in Boccob's uncaring embrace, why did Hannah open up with Stunners?"

"I thought you said she used Unforgivables," Hermione said.

"She switched when I ducked for cover," Milo explained. "Unless there's some rule or class feature I'm unaware of, Hannah's strategy made no sense."

"Hey," Hannah said.

"Sorry, I mean, _Snape's_ strategy made no sense."

"Well," Hermione mused, "maybe he doesn't want you dead at all?"

"Then _why_ did Hannah use Killing Curses at _all?_" Milo asked. "It's completely nonsensical."

"Then one of your assumptions is wrong," Hermione said bluntly. "Personally, I don't think it's Snape at all."

"But we know it's him," Milo protested. "He was out meeting Lucius in the forest and everything. Use your eyes, Hermione! He's so _obviously_ villainous."

"And yet," Hermione said coolly, "Dumbledore — the brightest mind of his generation and the most powerful wizard alive — lets him teach here regardless. What do we _know _about Snape?"

"That he's a smarmy git?" Ron suggested helpfully.

"And that he's allergic to shampoo?" Harry added.

"_No_," Hermione said firmly. "We _know_ that he met Lucius in the forest and Lucius ordered him to _have you expelled_, Milo. _Expelled_. Not murdered."

"Well, maybe he's upped the ante since then —"

"See, I don't think he has. Assuming he _was_ behind the attack on Harry in the Quidditch match, and the test to show you can't make potions, that's _two_ completely non-lethal attempts to expel you."

"Then why would he release a Troll on Hallowe'en, stab me with an Acromantula fang, possess Hannah to kill me, and have the Drow in the kitchen poison my treacle tart?" Milo asked.

"Why indeed?" Hermione smiled. "What if he _didn't_ do any of those things?"

"What," Milo scoffed, "are you suggesting the treacle tart poisoned itself on its own accord?"

"No," Hermione continued, "I'm suggesting there's another agent at play here. Could you adjust the display for a moment? Place Snape and Mister Malfoy off to the side with the various attempts to expel you, and Draco to a _different_ side with his fumbled Quidditch plots."

"If it makes you happy," Milo said, adjusting his illusion. "But that leaves a big hole _here_, though, with the various assassination attempts."

"Indeed it does," agreed Hermione.

"So... who fills the gap?" Ron asked.

"_That's_ the question we should be asking."

"You aren't seriously suggesting that there's three _entirely separate_ camps of villains working against us?" Milo asked. "That'd just be a huge mess. They'd spend half their time tripping over themselves."

"Why shouldn't there be?" Hermione asked. "Sometimes, real life _is_ just a huge mess."

"Otiluke's Razor suggests otherwise," Milo countered.

Hermione paused.

"Don't you mean Occam's Razor?" she asked tentatively. "'The simplest solution is usually the best one?'"

"Psht! What nonsense is that?" Milo said dismissively. "No, it's, 'the most dramatically appropriate solution is usually the best one.' In this case, it's clearly that You-Know-Who is pulling all the strings behind the scenes." Milo rearranged The Plot to demonstrate, "Except that there's some unknown factor thrown in there as well — probably a betrayal by someone close to us, I'm thinking Neville — which will only be revealed by the villain's final rant. And, as the time-tested Tenser's Theorem states, 'any attempt to discover a shocking twist before the end of an adventure will be doomed to failure, so focus on the job in front of you.' Ergo: defeating 'Puffs in Quidditch."

"I ... don't follow," Hermione admitted.

"Remember when Harry stomped the Slytherins?" Milo asked. "It was a big deal. _The Daily Prophet_ had a field day about... well, about something to do with broomsticks, anyways."

"That both the Nimbus and the prototype Firebolts seemed to suffer from a similar flaw and went haywire," Ron said. "And that the Boy-Who-Lived is quote, unquote 'in addition to being top student in his year, also the best Seeker Hogwarts has seen in many a year —'"

"But I'm not the —" Harry protested.

"Hold up, I haven't even got to the part where it talks about how supremely handsome you are," Ron snickered. "Malfoy wasn't mentioned at all, by the way."

"You see?" Milo said. "There's obviously some kind of subplot or sidequest involving Quidditch. I can only assume that we'll get bonus XP or Magic Items if we win the Cup. So: we'll win."

"But that match against Slytherin was hardly fair," Harry said. "There were plots within bloody plots. I've only been in one real game, what if Hufflepuff wins?"

"Well," Milo said conspiratorially, "I think I can help you a bit, there..."

o—o—o—o

"Mount your brooms, please," Milo heard Madam Hooch say from his seat up in the stands. The Hufflepuffs had arrived with banners bearing a variety of fairly unoriginal slogans (and occasional trash-talk, but Milo suspected that was from the Slytherins, who, strangely, had come out to the witch and wizard to root on the Hufflepuffs) to which Milo had responded with a _Silent Image_ of a fifty-foot tall Crimson-and-Gold Gryffindor lion devouring a Hufflepuff badger. When he added _Ghost Sound _(which accurately mimicked, in both pitch and volume, the roar of an enraged Dire Tiger, amplified by the voices of the actual students of House Gryffindor — and more than a few Ravenclaws), McGonagall awarded him five points for amazing spellwork and then banned all form of banner, magical or otherwise, from the rest of the match.

When Hooch gave a loud blast of her whistle, the signal to start the game, the players blasted off into the air — but Harry was much, _much _faster than the rest. This was due to a combination of two factors: Harry's vastly superior Nimbus broomstick, and the fact that he was currently under the effects of _Levitate_, making him effectively weightless.

"_Locate Object _— _Golden Snitch_," Milo muttered under his breath. "_Message_: Harry, it's thirty-three degrees to my right and eighteen degrees upwards." Milo had carefully chosen the seat closest to dead-centre in the auditorium that he could manage, which put him (unfortunately) almost directly next to Snape.

As Milo continued to mutter instructions under his breath, he noticed something surprising. Quirrell, sitting nearby, had one eyebrow cocked quizzically. _Probably thinks I'm praying or something_, Milo thought. _He can't know what I'm up to, though, can he?_ Idly, Milo wondered if there was a rule against him pointing the Snitch out to Harry. _In any case, what could they do_? Milo thought,_ it's not like you can award a penalty against the audience._

The Hufflepuffs, to be fair, did fairly well for themselves — they managed to seize possession of the Quaffle early on, and the three Chasers, passing the ball between themselves rapidly, were quickly boring down on Wood, defending the goals — not that it helped them much, in the end. Roughly forty seconds (forty-two to be precise, or exactly seven rounds) after the start of the match, Lee Jordan's magically amplified voice rang out over the pitch.

"POTTER HAS THE SNITCH! POTTER HAS THE SNITCH! HA HA, TAKE _THAT _YOU DUMB, DIRTY, HUFFLEPUFF B—"

"JORDAN!" McGonagall shouted sharply.

"Broomstick flyers, Professor. I was going to say broomstick flyers — _honest_."

The score was 150-0. The Hufflepuffs were too stunned to process their defeat, much less respond, while close to one-third of the audience erupted into thunderous applause.

"Blimey," said Fred, who sat nearby.

"We're going to need to raid Honeydukes again," said George.

It was, as Lee pointed out happily, the second shortest Quidditch match in Hogwarts History (the shortest, in 1412, ended before the whistle was finished blowing; the Snitch had flown directly down a Hufflepuff Chaser's throat. The Hufflepuff died, tragically, but there was much rejoicing nonetheless — it had been Hufflepuff's first win in over three centuries.)

o—o—o—o

"N-now that y-you know the b-b-basics of D-Disarming," Quirrell stammered to the Duelling Club that Sunday (which had shrunk somewhat since their first, chess-oriented meeting), "p-p-please p-p-pick a p-partner and p-practice."

They'd spent all morning learning Expelliarmus — or, rather, everyone _else_ spent all morning learning Expelliarmus; Milo had been alone in the corner working out some of the kinks in his _Fireball_ spell research. Quirrell's call to grab partners caught Milo somewhat by surprise, and he wound up partnered off to a first-year Ravenclaw NPC.

"I w-will c-count to three," Quirrell said, "and y-you will both t-try to d-disarm your p-partner. _Only_ d-disarm, M-Mister C-Crabbe, I s-saw that l-look."

Milo looked up and down the lines of students. To the upper years, of course, Expelliarmus was old hat — but, in Quirrell's words, they could always be 'b-b-better.'

"Aren't you going to draw?" the Ravenclaw asked him nervously.

"What do I look like, a sketch artist?" Milo snorted derisively.

"No, your _wand_," the boy hissed. Milo blinked. _Oh, right_, he thought, and pulled his shiny, barely-used wand from his pocket. He could still smell the varnish that Ollivander (Milo shuddered, repressing the horrible memories) used.

"One," Quirrell counted. The Ravenclaw's wand hand shook. Milo wondered vaguely if a local wizard could accidentally trigger a Silent Spell just by making the right wand motions.

"T-two." Milo whistled casually, staring at the Great Hall's amazing ceiling.

"T-Three," Quirrell finished. A great cry of "_Expelliarmus!_" rose up from the upper-years, and wands flew in every direction. The first- and second-years, however, were not generally quite so lucky. Most of their spells fizzled out feebly, hardly having any impact whatsoever on their target's wands. Hermione managed to get Ron to drop his wand, but Ron later confessed (out of earshot of Hermione, of course) that he dropped it because his hand was sweaty.

Without a doubt, the worst student off in the hall was Milo's poor Ravenclaw target, who found himself pinned to the ground by a Hippogriff that had not existed a moment before. Several nearby first-years turned and ran in horror, their screams echoing throughout the hall.

"Fetch, Rary!" Milo called to his summoned monster. The Hippogriff grabbed the Ravenclaw's wand from his feebly protesting hand and trotted over to Milo, dropping it at his feet. "Good girl! Now, go back to the Upper Planes from whence you came!" Milo waved his hand, and the Hippogriff vanished as suddenly as it had arrived.

Students nearby — those who hadn't run off — backed away from Milo slowly. The Ravenclaw lay sobbing on the ground.

"It was horrible!" he moaned to himself. "With the talons and the beak and the _eyes! _Merlin, the eyes! The cold, uncaring eyes!"

"I think I won," Milo said over the screams and tears. "You're disarmed." The fact that nonlethal combat and stage fights only award less than half XP regardless, Milo had almost paid off a week of item crafting with a single spell.

Eyes looked towards Quirrell expectantly, the Hogwarts students presumably waiting for him to either tell Milo off or deduct House Points for traumatizing children. The Defence Professor, however, did nothing more than watch Milo with unreadable eyes.

_If I get 75XP for every first year I defeat in a duel_, Milo mused, _I wonder how much I could earn practicing against a second year _— _or, for that matter, a seventh year._

As a couple of students carted off the gibbering Ravenclaw, Milo found himself face-to-face with Harry Potter.

"Look," Milo said to his bespectacled partymember. "We're an unbalanced party right now, and I'm higher level than you. That's just fact, it's not a _bad_ thing, necessarily. Everyone started at level one at some point. You'll get up to my level one day, but until then, don't feel bad when you lose. It's really not your fault, I'm a wildly inappropriate CR for you."

"One," Quirrell counted.

"Don't worry," Harry said quietly, "I won't."

"Two."

"Glad to hear —"

"Won't lose, that is."

Milo simply chuckled softly.

"Th-three."

"_Expelliarmus!_" Milo stared in horror at his suddenly-empty gloved hand. His useless wand had been tossed halfway across the Great Hall, in plain view of dozens of witnesses. By a level one. In a _fair fight_.

"How did you _do_ that?" Milo exclaimed. "Half your year can't even _cast_ the spell, much less on their first try after winning Initiative!"

"I dunno," Harry admitted. "The spell just, sort of, came naturally to me."

"Rematch?" Milo asked.

"Sure," Harry agreed. Without needing to be asked, Mordy dropped out of his pocket and scurried across the floor to retrieve Milo's wand. "Whoever's wand hits the floor first loses."

"_Expelliarmus!_" Harry cast again as soon as Quirrell finished counting.

Milo's wand flew out of his hand, but abruptly stopped in midair a few feet behind him and floated back into his hand.

"How did you —"

"Cast _Mage Hand_ when you weren't looking. Also, _Grease_." The wand in Harry's hand suddenly slipped through the fingers of his right hand, but, with reflexes only a Seeker could match, he caught it adroitly with his left.

"_Expelliarmus!_"

"Hells!" Milo cursed as the wand flew from his fingers again. He'd had to break concentration on _Mage Hand_ in order to cast _Grease_, which he'd been _certain_ would end the duel.

"Rematch?" Harry suggested cheerily.

"Count on it," Milo answered, and waited for Quirrell to start counting again. _I'll have to stop underestimating him_, Milo decided. _He must have Improved Initiative _and_ a high Dexterity score — makes sense, considering his Quidditch skills._

"Three," Quirrell finished.

"_Nerveskitter! Grease!_" Milo called, while Harry shouted "_Expelliarmus!_" simultaneously. Both their wands dropped to the floor with a clatter.

Milo picked up his wand and twirled it about his fingers idly. A few nearby students gave him an askance glance — if any of them started spinning a wand like it were a pencil, something was likely to catch fire.

"That... was impressive," Milo admitted grudgingly. _If I'm level five and Harry's level one _(is _Harry still level one?) then he just got enough XP from me to level up about a dozen times. _Could _Harry level up? Do these local yokels even _have _levels, in the conventional sense? And if so, do they gain XP? _ The idea seemed farfetched to him, but it wasn't impossible — Redcaps, for example, increased in level by dipping their caps into the blood of dead sentient creatures. At least, _his_ Redcaps did.

"Thank you," Harry said, sounding genuinely pleased. "Not like it'll do any good in a real battle, of course."

"Are you _kidding_?" Milo asked. "A no-save auto-disarm spell? Against enemies _incapable_ of using magic without a wand in their hand? What you've got there, buddy, is a game changer. Sure, the other side seems awfully fond of Killing Curses — but really, when it comes down to it, they're tactically almost identical. A wandless wizard and a dead wizard are different only in time elapsed."

"I suppose," Harry said, his brow furrowed. "Shall we call it a draw, then?"

Milo managed to disarm another three NPCs in first- and second-years before running out of disarm-capable magic, at which point he became target practice.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," Milo muttered, picking up his wand for the dozenth time in a row after some snotty punk of a Ravenclaw disarmed him (odd how the more he lost, the snottier and punkier his opponents seemed to become).

"A-and I think that's all for t-t-today," Quirrell said, dismissing the club. Almost everybody turned to leave, but a large number of students (including, to Milo's satisfaction, a certain young Malfoy heir) had to root around to find their wands first. As people filed towards the exits, the turbaned professor walked over to where Milo was grumbling. "I h-have to ask," Quirrell said softly, "why are y-you in this c-club? It's n-not like you c-can learn anything I h-have to t-t-teach."

"Are you kidding?" Milo asked. "I got two hundred and twenty-five Experience Points today. Not a patch on what I got from that Redcap over the holidays, but it's a respectable amount nonetheless."

"Indeed?" Quirrell said, and suddenly smiled. "W-well, I'm g-glad to hear it."

The strange thing was, he really _did_ seem happy on Milo's behalf. _Great_, Milo thought irritably. _For _once _I succeed a Sense Motive check, and _that's_ what I learn? Why do I even _bother?

"Thanks," Milo muttered.

"S-something you s-said last w-w-week stuck in my m-mind," Quirrell said. "About s-sidequests and s-subplots."

"Oh?"

"I th-think I h-h-have one s-such opportunity," Quirrell said quietly. "B-but it m-m-must stay b-between us. C-can you agree t-t-to that?"

"Of course," Milo said. He knew a plot hook when he saw it; he'd say just about _anything_ to get the conversation to the 'quest offer' point.

"S-something is s-still preying on unicorns," Quirrell said conspiratorially.

"Is the Troll back?" Milo said. "I heard it ran off pretty quick last time."

"N-no," Quirrell said. "At least, n-not to my knowledge. No, I b-believe s-something _else_ is hunting the p-p-poor, d-defenceless, innocent unicorns."

"Really?" Milo asked, intrigued. "So, the Troll was innocent the whole time? This complicates things even further," he mused.

"N-now, it's e-extremely d-d-dangerous," Quirrell said, "a-and I'd q-quite understand if you —"

"I'm in," Milo interrupted. Adventurers, as a rule, didn't go around _not_ doing extremely dangerous things. "What's the job?"

If Quirrell was thrown by Milo's sudden agreement to help, he didn't show it. "There is a c-c-cave deep within the F-Forbidden F-F-Forest," Quirrell explained. "So d-deep it's n-nearly on the f-far border."

"Caves are good," Milo said fervently. _Gods_, what he'd do for a decent dungeon crawl.

"N-not this c-cave, I f-fear. It's unlikely, b-but I f-f-fear it's p-previous ... occupants ... have r-returned."

"And _they're_ killing the unicorns for blood?"

"They d-do seem the t-type," Quirrell admitted, "b-being V-V-V-Vampires."

Milo gave a low whistle. He _knew_ he hadn't been carrying around five pounds of garlic powder all these years in vain. "Why do you need my help?" Milo asked.

Quirrell glanced from side to side nervously. "T-to t-tell the truth," he said, "I'm t-t-terrified. It's m-my d-d-duty as D-Defence Professor to investigate, but... V-V-V-V-V—"

"—Vampires—"

"Yes, thank you, V-V-V... bloodsuckers t-terrify me. I w-wouldn't be asking for help if I d-didn't know you h-had so m-much experience w-with th-them."

"When do we leave?" Milo asked.

"Friday," Quirrell said. "J-just after d-dark."

Milo was so fixated on his conversation with Quirrell that he completely failed to notice that Draco Malfoy, despite having long since found his wand, had yet to leave the room...


	24. Chapter 24: Nick of Time

Author's Notes: For those who don't know, the Far Realm is basically the Elemental Plane of Cthulhu. Also, Liquid Sunlight can be found on page 110 of Complete Scoundrel and is useful for literally _any_ character.

Minor Rules Note: I only realized _today_ that 3.0 and 3.5 have different XP reward rules. I never did get the 3.5 DMG and the SRD doesn't have the XP chart, so who knew? Because it's what I'm more familiar with, I, as DM, rule that Harry Potter and the Natural 20 uses 3.0's system for that alone. Anyways, on with the story!

ORWELLIAN EDIT: Fixed a number of typos and some weird tense problems.

EDIT2: To clarify, I'm using 3.0's _Experience Point_ rules, but 3.5 rules everything else. The difference is that 3.0 awards XP based on the average party level (so the PCs all get the same amount), whereas 3.5 awards it by the character's individual level (so lower-level PCs get more than higher-level ones from the same fight).

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

Milo had heard it said that a Wizard, given time to prepare, could defeat any obstacle in existence. To be fair, most of these times had been from Milo's own mouth. Also, the saying assumed the Wizard had access to Magic Item dealers and a way to purchase spells. And, for that matter, three to four meatshields. That said, walking down the dirt path to the Forbidden Forest at 8:00PM on Friday evening, Milo felt ready for _anything_.

He had a holy symbol of Boccob around his neck with his Amulet of Protection From Evil, a holy symbol of Pelor wrapped around his left wrist like a bracelet and a holy symbol of Heironeous around his right — even Mordy, sitting on his shoulder, had a compact symbol of the local variety (just a pair of lines intersecting at a right angle; how boring could you get?) held prominently in his hand. The symbols were all of silver and polished till they shone _like mirrors_ for optimum effect. He'd whittled twelve wooden stakes, six of which he kept in his Belt and six scattered about his person. That morning, he'd poured several pounds of fine garlic powder into the water supply before showering; the other Gryffindors had _not _been amused, but, Milo was pretty sure, neither would any vamps who tried to suck his blood.

Somewhat more significantly, Milo had _finally_ finished the Headband of Intellect +4 that he'd been putting off for months (in actuality, it was a small, discreet silver hairclip that would be all but impossible to notice in his tangled hair — local wizards, from what Milo could tell, rarely, if ever, wore the headbands that were all the rage back in Myra (city oflight!cityof_magic!_), but Milo still thought of it as a headband). In addition to making him marginally better at crossword puzzles, the Headband significantly increased the number of spells Milo could prepare every morning. Spells which Milo had _finally_ gotten around to researching and he was dying to test out, ideally on some unsuspecting bloodsuckers.

And _this time_, if only for the novelty of it, Milo had decided to actually _make sure_ that local vampires were anything like the vampire's back home. Quirrell had given him permission to read books from the restricted section on the subject, and, fortunately, they seemed more or less the same as what he was familiar with. Pale skin? Check. Inexplicably heavy accents? Check. Vulnerability to sunlight, running water, garlic, and mirrors? Check. Fangs? You betcha.

What had surprised Milo, however, was their apparent acceptance in wizard society. From what he could tell, they were persecuted, sure, but were still allowed to walk down the street in broad daylight (so to speak). Fred and George said that Honeydukes even sold blood-flavoured lollypops, although he wasn't sure how far he could believe anything they told him. Throughout the Azel empire, being publically known as a vampire was a death sentence. Werewolves seemed to be similarly treated, which, once again, it made Milo wonder why, exactly, everyone claimed there were werewolves living in the Forbidden Forest when there seemed nothing illegal with them simply renting a flat in Cardiff. _Ah, well_, Milo thought, _best not draw too much attention to it._ It was a well-known fact that the universe generally responded poorly to any attempt to draw attention to its numerous flaws.

As to these particular vampires, Milo assumed they were either criminals or ex-followers of Voldemort on the run. _Either way_, Milo thought grimly, _they picked the wrong forest to haunt_.

"Y-you're late," Quirrell said calmly as he approached the Defence Professor standing on the snowy path, silhouetted by light from the castle.

"A Wizard is never late," Milo intoned, as if quoting an ancient saying.

"Most t-timepieces would d-d-disagree with you," Quirrell said. "Irregardless," (Milo winced) "we m-must p-press on."

"Oh," Milo said suddenly. "Before I forget, you'd best take this." Milo fished out a small necklace from his belt and held it out for Quirrell.

"W-what is it?" Quirrell asked curiously.

"Amulet of Protection From Evil," Milo explained. "In case they try to Dominate —"

Quirrell dropped the Amulet as if it were a Stone of Weight.

"I th-think," Quirrell stammered, "that it w-w-would interfere w-w-with my... p-protective Charms. Y-y-you t-t-take it."

Milo blinked. Quirrell was _lying_. He'd actually made a Sense Motive check for once.

"Sure," Milo said, keeping his voice neutral. "Mordy can wear it." _Why would he refuse protection?_ Milo wondered. He could only think of three reasons: either Quirrell _wanted_ to be possessed by something, he was _already_ Imperius'd and his controller ordered him to drop it, or he had a _different_ magical amulet on already — wearing two at once prevented either from working reliably. Milo dismissed the first as patently ridiculous, and as for the third ... there was no reason, as far as Milo could tell, for Quirrell to lie about that. So. Quirrell was already controlled by the enigmatic ... whoever.

_Unless I failed my Sense Motive check so badly I registered a false positive_, Milo thought. _No, wait ... that's impossible, isn't it? Because a Sense Motive check wouldn't even be called unless he was Bluffing. I think. _Milo had never paid all that much attention to the NPC interaction rules — that's what Bards were for. Well, it was biting him now. _Next time I'm home, I'm buying a rulebook and I'm going to Autohypnosis the entire thing, no matter how long it takes._

Regardless, Milo didn't see that he had much choice. If Quirrell _was_ possessed, he'd very likely just kill Milo if he tried to flee. If Quirrell _wasn't_ possessed, then there'd be no reason to flee, anyways.

"Okay, let's go," Milo said, his voice steady with confidence he no longer felt. Quirrell gave a barely perceptible nod and headed off to the forest. "What's the plan?" Milo asked, falling into step with the professor.

"W-we go in, w-we s-send them b-b-back to their f-f-foul m-master, w-we g-go home."

"Fair enough. Does the Killing Curse work on vampires?"

"It w-works on anything," Quirrell smiled. "Except f-for D-Dementors." Milo bit his lip to keep from blurting out that he had a pretty good idea of something _else_ the Killing Curse wouldn't work against. _I should probably keep that little gem close to my chest until I find out why Quirrell is lying to me_. However, it did imply that the local vampires _were_ somewhat different from what Milo could not help but consider 'normal' ones.

"This Plane is _so_ weird," Milo said under his breath. "I wonder if I didn't accidentally fall into the Far Realm somehow." Milo harboured brief thoughts of having, maybe, gone _beyond_ the Far Realm, but cut that line off quickly; madness lay in that direction. "Any idea of their numbers?"

"N-No."

"Well, you, sir, are just _full_ of useful information today, aren't you?"

"These ... _Experience P-Points_"— Quirrell's mouth twisted with obvious distaste —"of w-which you sp-speak... w-will y-you earn them if I d-defeat the v-v-v... the c-creatures of d-darkness?" Quirrell said it as if he were simply making conversation.

"Yup," Milo said cheerfully, "just so long as I help in some way."

The Forbidden Forest, unusual among forests of the world, had a very clear and obvious boundary. On one side of an invisible line lay grassy areas where students were allowed and Hagrid lived; on the other, dense, dark, deep, dangerous woodland. Whether this was due to concerted effort on Hagrid's part, some powerful anti-growth Charm, or just one of nature's quirks, the result was a veritable wall of trees. Quirrell simply walked calmly down the path into the cavernous woods, but Milo paused at the border.

"Just because every trip you've made into this place has ended in disaster doesn't mean _this one_ will," he said quietly to himself. "Besides, it's just _trees_." Wizards and forests, historically, do not get along well. Wizards generally prefer to live either in massive metropolises surrounded by other Wizards, or, alternatively, in precariously crooked towers on the edge of sheer cliffs or floating in the centre of a volcano. Forests, on the other hand, were _strictly_ the domain of Druids (and the odd Cleric of Obad-Hai, god of nature, but Milo generally thought of those as wannabe Druids). Druids and Wizards got along like orange juice and toothpaste. "I am a master of the arcane powers that make the cosmic forces of the universe my plaything nineteen times per day," he said to himself, "and there ain't no fur-wearing treehugger that's going to stop me from going where I please."

If he said it firmly enough, he reasoned to himself, he might actually believe it.

Without further delay, he hustled into the woods after Quirrell.

"_Lumos_," Quirrell cast, and the tip of his wand began to glow like a torch. Milo winced as his eyes re-adjusted to the light and realised that, if he were ever separated from the Defence Professor or Quirrell dismissed the spell, Milo would be all but blind in the darkness. Milo _could_, if he wanted to, cast _Dancing Lights_ to create lights of his own, but they only lasted for a minute and he could only do it once.

Instead, he fished out his liquid sunlight from his Belt of Hidden Pouches. The small glass sphere held a glowing golden liquid that was originally intended as a grenadelike weapon to mildly irritate light-sensitive creatures (or do negligible damage to vampires, for that matter), however, it proved universally more popular pressed into service as a torch that could never go out — and all for _much_ less gold than an Everburning Torch.

Passing the glowing sphere up to his familiar to carry, Milo eyed the sides of the path with caution. The last time he'd been down this way, he'd been with Hagrid to collect the rope and canvas he'd used the time _before_ the last time he'd been here. And _that_ time...

Milo's shiver had nothing to do with the icy wind.

"When we get to the vampire nest," Milo said, "We should try to get them all in a group. I'll immobilize the lot, then you pick them off one by one." By _far_ the most effective use of Arcane Magic in combat was at disabling large numbers of enemies simultaneously, generally for the Big Stupid Fighters to move in and finish the job. Milo had one _Kelgore's Fire Bolt_ prepared just in case, but Quirrell would be infinitely more effective at single-target killing than Milo ever would be.

_Assuming_ _he's not possessed by Lucius or Voldemort or someone..._

Well, if it came to that, Milo was prepared. He would bet his life — in fact, that's exactly what he _was_ betting — that he'd found a way around the Killing Curse. To a certain extent. For a few seconds. With luck.

As long as he won Initiative, that is.

Not for the first — or the last — time he wished he were a Cleric and could just cast _Death Ward_.

"_Be silent_," Quirrell hissed. Milo hadn't realized that he was still repeating 'I am a master of the arcane powers that make the cosmic forces of the universe my plaything. I am a master of the arcane powers that make the cosmic forces of the universe my plaything...' over and over under his breath. Around him, dark bushes and creepers, almost black in the darkness, seemed to be reaching towards him hungrily.

"Sorry," Milo muttered.

"Foliage," Quirrell whispered. "Three O'Clock."

The instant of warning was all Milo needed to avoid being taken by surprise as the monstrous spider — _Acromantula_, he reminded himself — leapt from nearby undergrowth at him.

"_Kelgore's Fire Bolt._" The spider erupted into flame in midair and came crashing into the earth with a heavy thud, where it lay still. "I don't understand," Milo said. "Everything I've read said these bugs were smart — almost as smart as humans, actually. Supposedly, they can even talk."

"C-correct," Quirrell said.

"So... why do they keep rushing me like this?" Milo wondered. "They can shoot webs. They can think for themselves. Hells, they're even supposed to ..." Milo's voice trailed off somewhat as realized what he was about to say. _They hunt in packs_. "_Glitterdust!_"

Shining golden particles — no matter how many times he cast the spell, Milo was always struck by how _pretty_ they were (not that he'd ever admit to thinking that; it'd be undignified in a Wizard) — exploded around them. Milo generally used the spell to blind his enemies, but, in this case, it's other function — to reveal targets — served just as well.

What Milo had taken to be a cluster of particularly evil-looking shrubbery revealed it's sinister nature as a writhing, dark sea of chitin.

"Aw, Hells," Milo said. "Run?"

"R-run," Quirrell agreed. The forest exploded all around them as they bolted down the path, the spiders' hard carapace making angry chittering sounds as they rubbed against each other.

"Why do the spiders hate me so much?" Milo asked as he practically flew down the path. "I mean, what did I do to them? Except kill their nephew."

He risked a glance over his shoulder and was surprised to see barely a speck of golden light. At first, he thought that maybe he'd managed to lose his pursuers — then the more pragmatic, less wildly optimistic part of his brain added, helpfully, that no, he hadn't lost them; the _Glitterdusted_ Acromantulas were simply being blocked by the swarming masses of their non-glowing brethren.

_Not only am I going to be eaten_, Milo thought grimly, _but I've already garnished myself up for it._ He was practically sweating garlic. While Milo knew, academically, that Acromantulas were not the Monstrous Spiders of home, they seemed closely related; Monstrous Spiders, no matter how large, moved at the same speed as an unencumbered human. The Acromantulas, if they were gaining on him at all, were doing it slowly.

What they did have that he didn't was endurance. _Why the _Hells _did I dump Constitution for _Charisma? _That _has _to be the stupidest thing done by a Wizard since the dawn of time._

_Boccob, god of magic, has a higher Charisma than Constitution_, part of his brain added in defence. Milo's breaths were becoming increasingly laboured, and his legs burned with effort. Quirrell, running very slightly ahead of him, seemed to be doing just fine.

_You—are—_not_—Boccob_, the other part of his brain added vehemently.

_Everybody's a critic_.

"I don't suppose," Milo said between beleaguered breaths, "that you can do some magic on them?"

"Against one? M-maybe. B-but on f-fifty?"

"Screw this," Milo muttered. "Time for plan B. _Web!_" Layers of sticky strands, stronger than steel, shot out of his hands and created a near-solid wall of silky webs between the trees on either side of the trail.

_Web _is one of those beautiful, _beautiful_ spells in which, even if the victims make their saving throws, they're still pretty much screwed.

"How's _that_ for delicious irony, eh? _Eh?_ Think twice before you try to eat a Wizard, next time!" Milo shouted at the trapped spiders, who were angrily clawing at his webs. "Now you kill one or two," Milo added to Quirrell. Even as he spoke, he saw that no less than three spiders had nearly managed to free themselves from his webs; doubtless, several others further back were trying to find a way around.

"_Avada Kedavra, Avada Kedavra_," Quirrell cast the Unforgivable Curses (that is, Unforgivable when used on a _human_) as dispassionately as one would swat a fly. With a pair of eye-searing green flashes, two trapped spiders abruptly stopped struggling. "B-but I d-don't see... ah," Quirrell suddenly realized. The spiders' _—_ those that still lived _—_ struggling had taken on a very different form.

"'When you're being chased by an Owlbear in the woods,'" Milo quoted, "'you don't need to run faster than the Owlbear _— _just faster than the delicious, juicy Halfling.' Still, we'd best move along."

Despite the grisly carnage behind him, Milo grinned. Just like that, he'd covered one-third of the distance to level six. As he cautiously walked down the snowy path with Quirrell and ran the numbers on the Experience Points, his smile started to slip.

"Together we killed three spiders," Milo said quietly. "and I got 450 XP each. I got 600 from the one back in September, but I was lower level then..." he frowned. "...which is exactly how much I would have gotten if it were CR 6 and I had help from..." Abruptly, Milo stopped moving. _If he had help from a CR 12 ally each time._

"W-what was that?" Quirrell asked. "W-we really ought to p-press on. The A-Acromantulas will g-get through eventually."

"It was you," Milo said quietly.

"E-excuse me?"

"It was you, the whole time _— _I've been an _idiot!_ _You_ killed the Acromantula."

"Just c-calm down and —" without warning, Quirrell shouted "_Oblivia_—"

"_Nerveskitter! Grease!_" Quirrell's wand slid from his hands and buried itself in the snow. "You didn't think I'd say something like that without a Readied Action to back it up, would you? _Mage Hand_." Quirrell's wand flew into Milo's grasp. _Thank you, Harry, for making me learn that trick_.

"This is all just a b-big m-misunder —"

"You lost any chance of convincing me of that when you tried to erase my memory just now. So, who do you _really _work for? Lucius? Fudge?" Quirrell's mouth twitched slightly.

"I w-w-work for D-Dumbledore and the M-M-Minist—"

"Yeah, and I'm Pun-Pun the Kobold. Mordy — get the manacles." Milo kept a set of heavy steel manacles with one of the best locks on the market to avoid the infamous Prisoner's Dilemma (that is, what do Good adventurers do with captured Orcs?). Mordy dragged the manacles onto the ground at Quirrell's feet, then scurried back to Milo's shoulder. "Cuff yourself, and don't try anything funny if you want to avoid becoming a greasy stain on the ground." Milo was lying through his teeth — the magic he had available with the most killing potential was _Acid Splash_.

"This is m-m-madness," Quirrell said, but complied. "Y-you don't understand—"

"What I _understand_ is that you've clearly been lying to me for some time — _and_ you took my memories. I want to know why. And, Professor — make me believe it."

o—o—o—o

"Anybody seen Milo anywhere?" Ron asked. "His version of Wizard's Chess is surprisingly addictive."

"Nope, sorry," Hermione said, lying back in one of the Common Room's overstuffed armchairs.

"He had that mysterious assignment with Quirrell, remember?" Harry said.

"Oh, right," Hermione remembered. "The one he refused to talk about."

"He's going to the Forbidden Forest with Quirrell," Hannah said calmly. "They're going to hunt vampires."

"There aren't any _vampires_ in the Forbidden Forest," Ron snorted. "The werewolves wouldn't put up with them. They hate each other so much it's proverbial."

"How did you know that, Hannah?" Hermione asked, ignoring Ron.

"He's a terrible liar," Hannah explained. "And whenever I asked him about it, he'd glance towards the forest. Also, he stayed up late sharpening stakes in the Common Room and said 'I'm going to the Forbidden Forest with Quirrell to hunt vampires,' but I don't think he realized I was there. He often doesn't."

"Oh," Hermione said. "So _that's_ why none of the tables have got any legs."

"He's doing _what?_" Harry asked. "We have to go after him!"

"Into the _Forest_, mate? You're mad. There's giant _spiders_ in the Forest." Ron looked like he'd rather kiss Snape than do what Harry suggested.

"Don't you remember what happened the _last_ time he went into the Forbidden Forest with Quirrell?" Harry pressed.

"Was it that they found buried Galleons? Can it _please _be that they found buried Galleons?"

"He almost _died_, Ron."

"Oh, come _on_. Milo almost dies four times before getting out of bed every morning. He'll be _fine_."

Hermione frowned, and set aside her homework.

"I think Harry might be right," she said. "But so is Ron. Look at it like this, though: he's almost died, what, three times? Four?"

"Or thereabouts," Harry said.

"And why hasn't he? Died, I mean."

"_Hermione!_" Hannah sounded scandalized.

"No, I don't mean I _want_ him to, I'm just asking how he always survives."

"Because..." Harry mused. "Well, he gets rescued a lot."

"Grab your Cloak," Hermione said, her tone allowing no possibility of dissent. She then glanced out the window. As much as Milo drove her crazy sometimes, they _were_ friends. "And a scarf, it looks chilly."

o—o—o—o

"_Fool_," Quirrell said. "You have _no _idea of the f-forces with w-w-which you are m-meddling."

"I tend to hear that a lot," Milo shrugged. On his shoulder, his familiar mimicked the expression. "How about you just tell me, though? If you don't, I'm going to have to assume you're an enemy."

"I-is that s-supposed to be a th-threat?" Quirrell sneered contemptuously.

"Fine, don't tell me. Presumably, you're after the Stone? Eternal life _does_ sound like a pretty sweet deal — although, if I leave you here for the vampires to find you, you _might_ just wind up with eternal _un_life. Assuming there even _are_ any vampires, that is, and you didn't lie about that, too."

"Oh, the v-vampires are r-real, b-boy," Quirrell said. "And a-alone? B-by yourself? Th-they'll never let you leave the F-Forest alive."

"_Detect Thoughts_. Whatever you do, _don't_ think about your boss." To Milo's surprise, he picked up, not one, but _two_ sapient minds in front of him. "What the _Hells _—"

Without warning, the forest exploded into varicoloured light.

"_Expelliarmus!_" Quirrell's wand flew from Milo's grasp. "_Petrificus Totalus!_" Milo's hands suddenly flew to his sides and stayed there. All of his muscles stopped responding to movement, except, oddly, his eyes — he could look around unimpeded.

Half a dozen Death Eaters, masks and all, stepped out from the trees in a loose circle around Milo and Quirrell.

"It appears my son does not disappoint — for once," said an oily voice from behind one of the masks. "When he said you'd be leaving the castle with only a single teacher of dubious competence to protect you, I thought it was too good to be true. Fortune, it would seem, favours the patient."

Milo struggled to speak, but his jaw remained clamped firmly shut. Quirrell was looking at the Death Eaters with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"R-release me, L-Lucius," Quirrell said. "And y-you will be r-r-rewarded b-beyond your —"

"Rewarded by _you_?" Lucius sneered. "What could I, the wealthiest wizard in magical England, have to gain by freeing you? Who even _are_ you? I see no reason why I should not simply kill you on the spot."

"Y-you will f-face my w-wrath if you d-do this thing, _Malfoy_. F-for I _am_ L-Lord—" Quirrell broke off, screaming in anguish. Lucius looked around at his Death Eaters.

"Did one of you...?" he left the question hanging. They all shook their heads, seeming equally perplexed at the cause of the Defence Professor's sudden pain.

"F-forgive me," Quirrell stammered. "P-perhaps it is b-better to say that I h-h-have the _e-ear _of one that e-even y-you, L-Lucius, w-would n-not long r-regret d-displeasing."

"Would not long regret..." Malfoy frowned.

"Because you'd be dead, boss," one of the masked wizards added helpfully.

"Yeah, you'd be departed, boss," said another.

"Yes, I got that, Crabbe. Goyle. Now be silent." Had the spell preventing him from moving allowed, Milo would have grinned. _Like father, like son..._

"I believe you're bluffing," Malfoy said finally. "Nobody with friends that powerful would settle at being a schoolteacher."

"_N-no!_ L-Lucius, you f-fool, you d-don't under —"

"_Stupefy_," Malfoy cast, and Quirrell sagged against the tree. Lucius Malfoy bent over the unconscious teacher and softly whispered "_Obliviate_."

o—o—o—o

"Blimey," Ron said shakily. "What happened to all these spiders?" Through the folds of the Invisibility Cloak — Milo had been wrong, it _had_ worked for multiple people at once — they could clearly see piles of dead Acromantulas surrounding a thick web.

"It looks like they... turned on each other," Hermione sounded sick. "Although several of them look, well, just fine."

"Except that they're stone cold dead," Harry added.

"I think we should keep going," Hannah said. "It's safe to assume that Milo had some hand in this. He can't go thirty minutes without needing _someone_ to pull him out of the fire." Despite her words, she fingered a crude-looking flower at her lapel with a fond expression.

"Right," said Harry, feeling slightly embarrassed. "On we go."

"Er," said Ron, "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there's a big dirty _web_ in front of us."

"Milo once told me that magical webs burn quickly," Hannah said.

"Brilliant," Ron said. "But where are we going to get any fire?"

Hermione gave him an incredulous look.

"Where are we going to — _Are you a wizard or aren't you?_"

"Oh, right," Ron said, looking sheepish. "_Incendio!_"

o—o—o—o

"You, _boy_, have given me no end of trouble," Lucius sneered, his eyes narrowing through the holes in his mask. "That ritual was hardly supposed to summon an eleven-year-old abomination like _you_, but you'll have to suffice."

Milo suddenly saw the reason for the Still and Silent Spell metamagic feats. Without the ability to speak or move his hands, he was completely helpless.

"Crabbe! Goyle! Carry him. We must move beyond the wards."

_They're taking me beyond the wards?_ Milo wondered. _So, they mean to Disapparate._ If they did that, Milo could very well wind up imprisoned in a cavern somewhere in the Earth's crust, for all he knew. It could take him _centuries_ to earn enough XP to be able to _Teleport_ out of that without monsters to fight. _Assuming they don't just kill me, of course._

Rough hands grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and half-carried, half-dragged him through the dark forest.

_Well_, he thought, _I am royally screwed_. _At least I know Quirrell's up to something, for all the good that does me._

o—o—o—o

"Quiet!"Hermione suddenly hissed.

"What?" Ron asked.

"Don't you hear that? Someone's talking up ahead."

"I think I can see light," Harry said, squinting through his sight-augmenting glasses.

As quietly as they could, the four of them crept along the narrow, winding path towards the tiny points of light up ahead.

"Looks like four or five wands lit up," Harry said as they approached.

"But Quirrell and Milo only have two between them," Ron said.

"And Milo's doesn't even count," Hermione added.

"He could have used his _Dancing Lights_ spell," Hannah said, peering through the trees. "It would look sort of like that." She sounded somewhat skeptical, though.

"Could be," Harry said dubiously.

"I think we should assume it isn't them," Hermione said. "And that they aren't friendly."

"Good plan," Harry said. He tried to sound confident, but, really... what could they possibly do against a group of fully-trained wizards? He'd only learned how to disarm less than a week ago.

Moving was awkward with four bodies under the Cloak, but they slowly gained ground on the party ahead of them.

Ron's voice caught as they came close enough to see their masks.

"Death Eaters," he hissed. "Followers of You-Know-Who."

"Oh, Merlin," Hermione said softly. "We should go back and tell Dumbledore. We should have told Dumbledore right at the start."

"Yeah, well, he's a bit hard to reach," Ron said, "living in a password-protected secret office and all."

"Quiet, both of you," Harry snapped. "Those two, the ones built like gorillas — you see? They've got Milo. He... he's not moving."

"Is he — oh, Merlin. Can you tell if he's... is he breathing?" Hannah asked.

"No," Harry said without thinking. "I mean, I can't tell. Not... not the other thing."

"They're carrying him deeper into the Forest," Hermione mused. "They must mean to get outside the wards and Disapparate."

"Then we have to hurry!" Harry urged.

"And do what?" Hermione asked. "No, seriously. What do we do if we catch them? They'll kill the lot of us."

"We have to try," Hannah said. "He saved my life, once. He saved Neville's, too. _He_ wouldn't even think twice."

"If we take them by surprise," Harry mused, "we can disarm the four not holding Milo simultaneously. As soon as the two big ones drop him and go for their wands, we do the same to them."

"Then what do we do?" Hermione asked.

"Whatever we want, really," Harry said. "We'll have wands and they won't."

Hermione chewed on her lip.

"Fine," she said finally. "But if we don't get them all — _all_ of them — on the first volley, we run. _They_ won't be casting to disarm, or even to stun."

"Deal," Harry said reluctantly. Filled with equal parts reassurance in having a plan and abject terror in the face of near-certain death, he led his three classmates towards a larger group of hardened killers.

"Okay," he said finally, ducking behind a tree about twenty paces from the Death Eaters. "We're in range. Everyone get ready, and remember practice. It's no different from the Duelling Club."

"In the club, Neville won't _slay_ me if I mess up the spell," Ron muttered.

"We go on three, okay? One. Two. Th—"

There was a short series of loud popping noises, like small firecrackers, and the Death Eaters vanished.

"We're too late," Hannah said in a dead tone. "I can't... I mean, what... we... we're too late."


	25. Chapter 25: Roll for Initiative

Author's Notes: Something I've been doing this whole time, which I only just realized I haven't mentioned, is that I actually _do_ roll for Milo's hit points. He is... not overly blessed with luck.

Today's character sheet can be found here: www myth-weavers com/sheetview php?sheetid=452348 (replace spaces with periods, as usual). Note: I just realized that it was set to "Private" view, and not "Public;" you should all be able to see the character sheet now. Sorry!

The whole chapter is posted. Once again, sorry for the wait! I'm doing my best. There's a pretty good chance next week's chapter will be late as well, but after that things should be normal again.

Also, I threw in a non-canonical AU sidestory I wrote in a particularly dull European History class last week. It has moderate spoilers for Robert Jordan's _The Wheel of Time_, so don't read it unless you're caught up. And if you're not caught up, read the series. It's _awesome_.

SAD NOTE: Due to Prismatic Dragon-levels of homework, there will, tragically, not be an update of Harry Potter and the Natural 20 on (the Canadian) Thanksgiving weekend. (That's this weekend).

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

Milo stared up at the dark, dank masonry ceiling, following the patterns of the stone above him, shaking his head in disgust — something he regretted instantly as his vision swam blurrily. At some point —he couldn't remember when, which, all things considered, was concerning —he'd been searched for anything even vaguely magical-looking. His Belt of Hidden Pouches, his Amulet of Protection From Evil, his anti-vampire paraphernalia, and, amusingly enough, his wand were all missing.

All that left him with were his magic robes, 'Headband' of Intellect, and Arcanist's Gloves, and whatever spells he still had memorized — which was to say, most of his best stuff.

Except for his spellbook, which, if he didn't get it back soon, would leave him only capable of preparing the 0th-level spell _Read Magic_ and... Milo frowned.

He felt oddly like there were a pair of other spells he _should_ know already but somehow... didn't. Like something was missing. He dismissed the notion that he'd been memory charmed; the now-familiar feeling he had could only mean one thing: he'd levelled up.

_Must have happened when I disarmed Quirrell_, Milo mused. Even including the steep XP reduction for nonlethal combat, the Defence Professor had given him _more_ than enough to level up.

"Parchment," Milo said suddenly. "I need parchment _now_."

When a Wizard increases in level, they learn two new spells for free. This is supposed to be an instantaneous thing — in fact, it is generally assumed that the spells learned were from ongoing research the Wizard was doing before levelling. This doesn't change the fact that if a Wizard goes through an incredibly violent day and, say, increases in level three times — an unusual, but not impossible feat — he can somehow perform months of spell research, not in the space of that one day, but _in the weeks leading up to it_.

Right that moment, Milo's brain was packed full of roughly three hundred and thirty-six hours of retroactive potential spell research. The fact that this was blatantly impossible didn't mean that it wasn't happening.

His hands twitched. His head felt like it might well explode if he didn't get these spells on paper soon. Looking around the dimly lit room — a single flickering lamp provided what could generously be called light — he noticed that his considerate hosts had failed to furnish his cell with a stationary kit.

Milo rolled up the left sleeve of his magically-augmented Hogwarts uniform, cursing like a level 10 Half-Orc Dread Pirate.

"I can't believe I'm reduced to this," he muttered (after heavy censorship, that is). Little-used rules allow a Wizard's forearm and upper arm to be used as three pages of spellbook each — more than enough for his purposes. The long-term thinker in him was screaming in protest at the wastefulness, both in terms of time and money, of his plans, but cold pragmatism ruled here: he still had all of his 3rd-level spell slots filled, but he'd used the lion's share of his 1st- and 2nd-level spells in the battle with the Acromantulas (or was it Acromantulae? Milo could never tell).

He had his paper analogue, but he still needed ink. With one last, choice curse (it was Orc, and it wouldn't translate, so don't ask) he bit deeply into the skin of his right index finger.

How long had he been unconscious? Eight hours? More? Wincing with pain, he frantically scrawled the mystic words of power that were the keys to _Benign Transposition_ and _Shatter_ on his arm. The blood ran and spread, but it would do for now. It would have to.

As for his feat... Craft Magic Weapons and Armour was all but useless to him for now, but he'd need it, soon. He could always retrain it later.

Some time later — how long, Milo wasn't sure in the dark — he heard footsteps, ringing out loudly on the cold stone floor. He quickly doused the nearby lamp and turned to face the door, Readying himself.

The doorknob turned slowly, and eventually, the heavy wooden door opened. A masked, robed figure who Milo recognized by his stature as either Crabbe or Goyle senior entered, his wand out and its tip glowing.

"_Shatter_." A thunderously loud ring erupted from the thin wooden stick as if a heavily optimized Hulking Hurler had thrown a boulder at a gong the size of a small barn. The light went out as the wand fragmented into splinters, leaving the two of them in near-total darkness.

In most circumstances, a young boy trapped in a dark room with a grown man built along the same lines as the _USS Iowa_ would hardly be thought to have the advantage.

This was not most circumstances.

"_Silent Image_." The words were barely more than the ghost of a whisper, but in the hands of a Wizard, whispered words could be more dangerous than a rampaging Wyrm.

What Crabbe (or Goyle?) Senior saw made the illusions Milo had used on Peeves and Ollivander look like a toddler's crayon drawing.

After a moment, the man screamed.

"Take it away," he whimpered through the mask. "Please, just — just take it away."

"It's out of my hands," Milo lied. "I brought them, but they'll only leave when they're... appeased. You wouldn't want to know what they eat." Goyle (or Crabbe?) made an incoherent wordless sound. "Although..."

Milo would have bet his spellbook that, had he possessed darkvision — and had the Death Eater not been wearing a mask — he would have seen a manic glimmer of hope in the man's eyes.

"I _suppose_ there's another way. I might be able to... intercede, on your behalf, if I had reason to."

"Yes! Anything!" An interesting quirk of the way Illusions work is that the _only_ way to determine their true nature without magic (or by having them pointed out) is to succeed on a Will Saving Throw. A viewer is _only_ allowed a Save against Illusions after either physical interaction or by studying them carefully. Milo doubted Crabbe (or Goyle) was blessed with a high Will save bonus, but even a 1st-level Commoner could roll a twenty. So long as Milo kept the image from actually _touching_ the Death Eater — and kept him distracted — then Bigby himself couldn't tell the difference. In short: Illusions are like movie monsters. With a little care, even the staunchest audience will believe in them completely — until they appear on screen in clear lighting.

"Tell me where I am, where my gear was taken, and why I was brought here."

"You're in M-M-Malfoy's M-Manor." Milo was reminded briefly of the treacherous Defence Professor's stammer. "Y-your w-wand is in a st-storeroom down the hall, and you're here for the Ritual." Something about the way he said it implied a Capital Letter.

"One last thing. Give me the key."

"Key?" _Of course_, he thought. Wizards here wouldn't use keys; they'd just use Alohomora to open locks — and Colloportus to close them again. _Great. _Now _what do I do with him?_ Seeing as how he was without his standard-issue fifty feet of hemp rope — a cardinal sin among Adventurers — and he couldn't just lock his captive in the room, he was in something of a dilemma. _Eh, what the Hells_. He could sit here moralizing over what to do with captured enemies, or he could act and hope for the best. "Don't even think about moving, or I'll let them have you." Without bothering to wait for a response, he walked over to the Death Eater and tore off strips of the man's robes to bind his arms and legs. Milo didn't have any Skill Ranks in Use Rope (because, seriously, who trains Use Rope?) but he hoped his crude knots would do. As an afterthought, he shoved the horrid mask into the man's mouth as a gag. Milo turned to leave, but paused in the doorframe. "I put a Contingent Curse on those knots," he said simply. "If they ever come undone, you'll die."

A _Silent Image_ could last as long as Milo concentrated, so he changed the Illusion from the writhing mass of Indescribably Awful Unspeakable Horrors to a tiny, dull grey ball that orbited his wrist slowly. Normally, he wouldn't bother going through such measures to save spells, but without his Spellbook, they were going at something of a premium.

Closing the heavy door behind him, Milo stepped out into a dimly lit hallway. He was somewhat surprised to find it free of guards, but it made a sort of sense — this mad society was entirely populated by wizards, and wizards, by-and-large, had better things to do than guard prisoners. Not that a couple of low-level Muggles with pointy sticks could stop him if he really wanted out, if it came to that.

To his right was a narrow, slightly crooked staircase; to his left, a thick door like the one behind him. Didn't take a _Genius Loci_ to figure out which way led to the storeroom. The door was, unsurprisingly, locked.

Shatter could destroy any nonmagical object of up to sixty pounds. The thickly Reinforced door weighed well more than that, but, when it came to it, what, exactly, was an object? A door? A plank? certainly. Part of a door? No, that was _part_ of an object. But one of several planks making up a door? If they weren't an object, then neither was the door — by the same logic, the door couldn't be destroyed because it was part of the house, and the house because it was part of the planet.

"_Shatter_." Regrettably, he had to dismiss his Silent Image. The thick chunk of mahogany connected to the polished brass hinges holding up the door exploded away from Milo's outstretched palm. The rest of the door teetered precariously for a moment before falling to the ground with a deafening clatter that could likely be heard from the top of Mount Celestia. _Well, stealth has never been my strong suit in any case._ Zook — assuming he was still alive — would be ashamed of him. _Are any of them alive? Am I the last one?_

Stepping over the ruins of the once-fine door, Milo entered a surprisingly comfortable-feeling ten-by-ten stone room. _All it needs now is an orc guarding a chest_, he thought wryly. Dusty boxes were scattered about the floor space haphazardly.

"_Locate Object_ — _My Belt of Hidden Pouches_." Heaving a sigh of relief, he allowed the gentle tug of his Divination to lead him to a box seemingly indistinguishable from the others, the lid of which came off easily. Neatly stored inside were his various magical doodads. Milo was about to reach for them, but hesitated.

_This is _far _too easy_, he thought. Overconfidence was pretty well standard-issue among archvillains, but this was _ridiculous_. They left him — a Wizard — alone in a room? He hadn't even been bound, blindfolded, and gagged (not that any of those would be a guarantee; Still and Silent Spell existed for a reason, after all). And putting his Magic Items in a room _right next to his cell_ was simply insane. Frankly, he should have been executed, looted, and left in a ditch by the road somewhere.

Milo had made too many mistakes by rushing in blindly and ignoring the signs around him. He needed to stop and examine this from every angle before he got himself killed. It was time for an Intelligence Check. Time to Take Twenty, in fact. What did Milo _know_?

Fact: the Death Eater had said he was needed for a ritual. Presumably, they needed him alive, or they wouldn't have gone through all the effort of capturing him when it would have been much, _much_ easier to kill him before he knew they were attacking him. He reckoned it wasn't unreasonable to assume that this ritual had something to do with the one that had summoned him here in the first place, if only because it was the only other time the words 'ritual' and 'Malfoy Manner' had coincided in this particular story arc. So... what was the goal? To send him back? Somehow, Milo doubted that a group of villains who could, apparently, 'eat death' would take pains to see him home safely.

Fact: Lucius had taken _grossly_ inadequate measures to keep him imprisoned once captured. This either implied a serious lack of knowledge about Milo's magical capabilities — something he doubted Lucius had, seeing as how Snape, presumably acting on Lucius's orders, had nearly had Milo thrown out of Hogwarts by exploiting the differences in their respective magical abilities — or that he _wanted_ Milo to escape. But that was _stupidity_. Why capture Milo only to give him what amounted to a key, a bagged lunch, and a map out of his cell? Was Lucius _looking_ for some sort of climactic showdown? Surely not. Milo knew little of Voldemort's lieutenant, but among the list of things he _did _know, 'self-destructive flair for dramatics' was conspicuously absent.

Fact: all of Lucius's actions known against Milo to date had been with the end goal of capturing him alive. To do that, Milo would need to be taken outside of the grounds, where the faculty and wards would be unable to protect him.

"None of this answers the question of how I escaped so easily," Milo muttered. Maybe... could he have had help from inside Lucius's camp? It was far too tenuous to be listed among his 'facts' (many of which, Milo was sure, were tenuous enough to make any respectable logician shudder), yet it seemed the only reasonable conclusion. The only other reason Milo could think of would be some sort of trap, but he couldn't see any reason for the Lucius and the Death Eaters (a part of Milo's brain idly noted that 'Lucius and the Death Eaters' sounded like the name for a group of travelling Chaotic Evil Bards) to lay a trap for him _while he was unconscious and in their hands_.

If the good guys really had a mole, he had to be someone with enough decision-making power to oversee the placement of Milo's stuff, but not enough to simply leave it with him in prison. So. One of Lucius's right-hand men was a traitor.

Regardless, the room was unlikely to explode if he touched his Belt, so he suited up.

Fact: when Milo had been Imperiused, his controller had made no effort to order him outside of the Hogwarts grounds. Therefore, Lucius — and by extension, Snape and Draco — had _not_ been responsible for having him Imperiused after Christmas.

Fact: he had, however, been ordered to investigate the Mirror.

Fact: Quirrell was a traitor, yet _not_ in league with Lucius. Thinking back to The Plot, Milo realized he'd made a serious error: he'd assumed that the evil would be monolithic; one giant, shadowy organization out to get him. This was evidently not the case.

Fact: the Philosopher's Stone was obviously hidden on the forbidden third-floor corridor in Hogwarts.

Fact: the day the Troll was released, both Quirrell and Snape had immediately gone to that corridor.

Fact: Quirrell had killed what was at least _one_ of the guardians of the Stone.

Fact: the Philosopher's Stone was one way for Voldemort to return.

Fact: Quirrell had uncharacteristically volunteered to lead the investigation to find whoever was killing unicorns in the Forbidden Forest.

Fact: Unicorn blood was another way for Voldemort to return.

Milo's pulse quickened.

Fact: Milo had been a blind idiot to believe the Troll was responsible for killing the unicorns.

But that wasn't the end of it.

Fact: Milo _himself_ was another way for Voldemort to return.

Fact: Quirrell knew this, and also knew that Milo required more Experience Points to do the same.

Fact: Quirrell had taken an unusual interest in Milo, and had asked several questions about how he levelled up.

What was it the Professor had said? _You, Milo, are a prize greater than any Philosopher's Stone_.

Milo felt chilled to his spine, and it had nothing to do with temperature.

Conclusion: Quirrell was trying to bring Lord Voldemort back from the dead.

_No, wait. That's wrong_._ He already has unicorn blood._

Conclusion, Revised: Quirrell _has already brought Lord Voldemort back from the dead_.

Milo's knees turned to jelly, and it wasn't because of the Jelly Legs Hex. His breathing accelerated into a staccato beat of shallow gasps; the edges of his vision began to darken. _I told him _everything _he asked._ _I may as well have gone up to the Dark Lord Voldemort and handed him a copy of the Rules on a platter_.

And he called himself a _Wizard_. One of the Wise. He wasn't worth his pointy hat. What had he accomplished? He'd as good as told Voldemort — Godsdamned _Voldemort_ — about the secret workings of Arcane Magic and the D20 System. Milo had almost _killed_ one of his best friends. With a _dagger_. Reality was his plaything, and he'd resorted to throwing a block of sharpened metal.

With effort, he steadied his breathing enough to speak. He felt a sharp, metallic tang of metal in his mouth.

And he called himself an Adventurer. A Hero. An Optimizer.

_I dumped Constitution. What kind of Optimizer am I?_

"_Pazuzu._" The walls of the room seemed to distort slightly, but it could have been a trick of the flickering light. The slight tremors could well have been muscle spasms.

"_Pazuzu._" The lights — what few there were in this basement — went out. He thought he could hear quiet laughter.

"_Pa _—" He yelped at a sudden, sharp pain in his hand. The light returned as if nothing had happened.

"What the _Hells_ are you _doing_? Are you trying to get us _killed?_" The voice was small, but it seemed to fill the whole room. A small, slightly overweight, white-and-brown rat was hanging onto Milo's right hand, his fingernails dug into the fine fabric of Milo's Arcanist's Gloves.

"Mordy?" Milo asked in astonishment. "I thought you'd still be in the Forbidden Forest."

"One of the first things a familiar learns is how to disappear when not needed." Mordy took on a dry, lecturing tone. "And when Save-Or-Dies start flying is the first sign a familiar isn't needed. I ducked into my Belt as soon as you got paralyzed."

"I think you mean _my_ belt," Milo said indignantly. "And where do you get off biting me?"

Mordenkainen snorted, a slightly incongruous sound for a rat.

"Look at it this way. What happens to you if I die?"

"I lose a bunch of Experience Points," Milo shuddered.

"And what happens to me if _you _die?"

Milo frowned.

"I have no idea," he confessed. "I could look it up when we get home —"

"Don't bother," the rat interrupted. "There's no mention of it anywhere. Centuries ago, when the ancestors of modern researches first began testing the laws of the universe to determine the rules, they didn't bother investigating it. That hasn't changed since. _Nobody_ knows what happens to a familiar whose Wizard dies. Let's keep it that way, shall we? I don't fancy waking up as an ordinary rat again. Your fool stunt could have killed us both. Trying to summon a Demon Prince? What were you _thinking_?"

"Look—"

"My Intelligence is less than _half_ yours — though you wouldn't know by looking — and even _I_ know that's a terrible idea."

"It was the only way—"

"You're True Neutral. He'd have no obligation to enter negotiations with you. Once summoned, he could have gutted you like a fish and gone on to do Gods know what to this Plane."

Milo paused.

"You're right. I'm sorry."

"Did you — _did you just admit a mistake?_"

"Mistake? I've made nothing _but_ mistakes. Quirrell is working for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Now that he knows I'm on to him, he's probably killing my friends."

"This isn't like you. What's _wrong_ with you?"

"Like you don't already know," Milo said sullenly. "You can read my mind, remember?"

"It's an _empathic_ link, not a _telepathic_ link. Moron." Despite his words, Milo felt a flash of concern through the bond.

"Whatever."

Mordy's expression — such as he had, being a rat — hardened.

"Oh, look at you, summoning Demon Princes and moping and making rules errors. You know what you remind me of?" The familiar's words were positively _dripping_ with contempt — an effect undermined slightly by the emotions drifting through their bond. _Worry. Concern. Love._

"Don't say it." But it was hopeless, Milo knew _exactly_ what Mordenkainen was going to say — possibly because, in a manner of speaking, they were two sides of the same person.

"An Apprentice-Level hack NPC, that's what. Are you a set piece, or are you a Player Character?"

"Says the glorified Class Feature."

"Hey, at least this _Class Feature_ knows why he's here."

"And why, pray tell, is that?"

"I'm here because _you're_ here. I'd follow you into Orcus's Throne Room. And, more the fool I am, I'd trust you to get us back out again. But I've only got the Intelligence of an average NPC Half-Orc. Now, what are we going to do?"

"You know, you suck at giving pep talks."

"I work with what I'm given. We share Skill Ranks, and it's hardly _my _fault if you find better uses for them than Perform (Orator). Now. _What are we going to do?_"

Milo paused, his mind racing.

"We're going to find Quirrell and stop him. But to do that, we're going to need to get out of this manor. Again."

"And why are we going to do that?" Mordenkainen pressed.

"Because..." Images flashed into Milo's head. Images of Voldemort, all cloaked in black with glowing red eyes, torturing Harry and Ron and Hermione. And... and Hannah. "Because..." Of Voldemort, walking unopposed into the Potters' house eleven years ago and murdering Harry's parents. Of him committing acts so foul that, not only did nobody mention them to this day, but that caused fully trained, battle-hardened wizards _to fear to even speak his name_. Quirrell wanted to unleash him again on this absurd, pathetic, broken, confused, third-party, inconsistent, _beautiful_ Plane. "Because he'll hurt my friends. Because it's the right thing to do." It should have felt more profound, more impressive, changing one's alignment. Milo felt vaguely cheated.

"Go forth and kick ass, my master."

o—o—o—o

It was the smell, of all things, that first clued Macnair in that something was awry. It started faint, and he simply ignored it. In a few seconds, it became overpowering. A dank, musty, earthy scent which reminded him of a crypt. Frowning beneath his mask, the executioner drew his wand and stuck his head into the hallway to see what was going on. Snape, relaying Malfoy's orders, had told him to keep an eye on the corridor while the others prepared for the Ritual. The oily Potions Master had been very specific; Macnair was to stand just out of sight of Crabbe. He said it was to optimize sightlines, whatever that meant.

A rat scurried between his feet — this was unusual; Dobby would likely be punished severely for his negligence — but, otherwise, there seemed nothing unusual.

"Goyle?" Macnair called out softly. Crabbe had been sent to Stun the prisoner again in case he came close to waking, but Crabbe should have been just around the corner. _Idiot must have wandered off_. He was about to return to his post when he noticed, just in sight at the end of the hall, what looked like a pair of feet sticking around the corner. With a sudden lurch, they were gone.

"What the H—"

"_Benign Transposition._" Macnair heard a tiny _crack_, like a mouse Disapparating, and suddenly the crypt smell was strong enough to make him want to gag. Macnair whirled, and found himself face-to-face with a walking, waking, nightmare. Empty sockets in a huge, misshapen skull stared at him, its jaw grinning grotesquely. The... thing, whatever it was, had to hunch over to fit in the cavernous hallways of Malfoy's manor, and its disproportionately long, skeletal arms ended in sharp, serrated claws. Bleached bone thudded against the polished mahogany wood as it walked calmly towards him. Macnair didn't know what it was, and wasn't about to wait to find out.

"_Avada Kedavra!_" A green bolt of hate-fuelled death flew at the monster and exploded harmlessly on its ribcage. Macnair stared at it in absolute amazement. "_Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra!_" Again and again, he fired the most powerful spell he knew, the spell that killed without fail, but the abomination simply ignored him and maintained its sedate pace.

With sudden, lightning speed belying its utter lack of visible musculature, the nightmare leapt. Briefly there was pain, and then darkness.

o—o—o—o

"_Shatter_." The aged, expensive, polished, exquisitely-crafted wooden door fell inwards, revealing a familiar dining room.

Lucius Malfoy stared at Milo in utter astonishment for a split second, but quickly schooled his face to calmness.

"So," the elder Malfoy said. "I see you've bested Crabbe and Goyle. No more than I'd expected. I suppose you wonder why we've brought you here?"

"Some," Milo said neutrally. There were twelve other Death Eaters in the room, all anonymous beneath their masks. One of them, at least, was probably a mole; the rest could be anyone. Despite his promise to never jump through a window again, he figured his best way out was the same as last time. This time, however, he could summon Skeletal Trolls — being mindless and Undead, they were immune to all three of the Unforgivable Curses, and, for some reason, Summon Undead III was Conjuration (as opposed to Necromancy, one of Milo's forbidden schools) so he could cast it without problem.

"Well, I think you will find that, if you will but listen for a moment, our aims are much the same," Lucius explained. Despite himself, Milo was intrigued.

"Go on," he said skeptically. If worse came to worst, he could always fight his way out.

"You were brought here _quite_ by accident," Lucius said, "and — I swear this by the Most Noble and Ancient House of Malfoy — we are preparing a ritual that will send you back."

Milo gaped with genuine astonishment. This was completely out of left field.

"You do realize that I'm not naturally predisposed to trust someone wearing a skull mask, right?"

"What, these?" Lucius pulled off his mask, revealing his long, platinum blond hair and politely smiling face.

"And this... this ritual of yours," Milo said, "it won't, by any chance, return me home dead or horribly dismembered?"

"Not to my knowledge, no. So, what say you?"

"I... have to ask. Why?"

"The ritual we... mistakenly used to bring you here cost us something," he said reluctantly, "something which can only be regained if you are returned. It is no concern of yours, however. I'm sure you have your own problems to deal with, where you came from."

Well, there was the matter of resurrecting his almost-certainly-dead teammates...

It was tempting. It was really, _really_ tempting. He could go _home_, back to a world that ran on sensible, predictable rules, a world where he didn't have to re-invent the wheel every time he wanted to learn a new spell, a world where not _every single citizen_ had access to At-Will No Save Death Spells. He could see his home; Myra, City of Light! City of _Magic!_ more than lived up to its name. He could show Thamior the Unimaginably Horrid who was boss. He could fight _Orcs _again. _Gods, I miss fighting Orcs_. And yet...

"Sorry," Milo said finally. "I still have work to do."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Things would go... easier, for both of us, if you were alive for the ritual, but, alas..."

Milo could practically feel the Initiative Die rolling in his head as he unleashed his Readied Action.

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

**Also: BONUS OMAKE! (Warning: SPOILERS AHEAD)**

**Q: What if Milo were transported to Robert Jordan's **_**The Wheel of Time**_** instead of the Harry Potter universe?**

**A: The **_**Eye of the World**_** would look like this:**

The wolf-headed Trolloc reached at him with its horrid, barbed catchpole in an attempt to pull him from his Mount.

"_Glitterdust!_" Milo shouted, and the surrounded Shadowspawn recoiled, blinded by the sudden light. "_Ha!_" he said exuberantly, "and _that's_ why you don't send a horde of mooks to catch a caster! Fear my Arcane sparkles, Shadowspawn!"

In an instant **—** less than a Standard Action, for certain **—** Milo found himself pulled from his horse and slammed into the hard earth. Lan's curved blade was held against his neck, his foot pressed down Milo's chest. Milo's companions were staring at him in horror.

"Male channeler," he heard somebody whisper, while another added "The Dark One and all the Forsaken are bound in Shayol Ghul, bound by the Creator at the moment of creation," and trailed off. Moirane stared at him, an unreadable expression on her face.

"He is shielded," she said quietly. "But to gentle him, here, would light a beacon for halfmen leagues in every direction." Lan gave her a brief, questioning look. Moirane shook her head, and he withdrew his blade. "The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills," she murmured. "There was no forseeing this. He is a part of the Pattern, now."

**Several Thousand Pages Later:**

"Graendel did it," Milo said. "I just used a _Limited Wish_ to _Speak With Dead_."

**Even More Thousands of Pages Later:**

The _Gholam_, immune to the Power and capable of recovering from any injury, charged at Mat and Milo.

"Light!" Mat said, barely avoiding the _Gholam_'s boneless grasp.

"_Disintegrate_," Milo muttered. The assassin crumbled into dust.

"Blood and bloody ashes, what _was_ that?" Mat asked.

"Dunno," Milo shrugged. "Don't care. _Locate Object _**—**_ Bowl of the Winds_. We turn left, now."

**Circa **_**The Gathering Storm**_**:**

"_Widened Fireball_," Milo cast, and hordes of Shadowspawn – Trollocs, Draghkar, and Myrdraal alike – fell to his fire. "_Cloudkill_," he said, and hundreds more died. He only had to hold the line for a few more rounds… the Lord Dragon had promised. Help _was _coming – right?

Milo felt, rather than heard, the Fade behind him. The Conjurer whirled, ready to send the Halfman back to its master, when its black blade was abruptly sheared in half – as was most of the unfortunate Myrdraal, as well. Rand stepped out of the Gateway, staring at Milo with his steely gaze.

"What you have wrought here was not _saidin_," he said simply.

"That's what I've been trying to say this whole time," Milo said, wasting a Fist of Trollocs with a _Silent Fireball_. "But nobody here ever listens to _anyone!_"

"I have only met one channeler who did not use _saidin_," Rand continued, oblivious to Milo's words. "_Forsaken_."

"What? Wai—"

Rand channeled balefire without a second thought.


	26. Chapter 26: Bluff Checks

Author's Notes: last chapter's Wheel of Time joke-section (it's not meant to be taken seriously) was rather a lot of fun, and fairly well received, so I might do more in the future. We'll see how things turn out. Sorry for the long delay, but it should be the last missed weekend for a while—I haven't got any assignments worth mentioning due until mid-November. Updates might become erratic around then. Apologies in advance.

Update Nov 3rd: Hello all you HP:MOR readers! It just came to my attention that Eliezer Yudkowsky/Less Wrong recommended me on his blog on Thursday and a number of new readers have arrived because of that. Which is awesome. Enjoy! Although I think "Rationalist Fanfic" is somewhat of an exaggeration (albeit one that makes me happy) and that "Rationalist-_inspired_ Fanfic" is more accurate because, well, anyone who's met Milo likely won't be immediately struck by how _rational_ he is. Is Irrationalist Fanfic a thing? /ramble.

In other news, there won't be an update tomorrow because of an essay due Monday, but I think with some re-shuffling we can avoid the Great Schedule Slip of October from re-occurring. I tend to leave my homework for weekends, which is _also_ when I do my writing. So. As an experiment, I am going to try switching the update day to **Thursdays. **That way, if I can't find time in the weekend to write, I won't just give up on the update altogether. Whether there will be one this Thursday is only 50-50, because of Good Reasons I Swear, and Why Are You Looking At Me Like That? Stop! I'm Trying Real Hard And The Next Chapter Will Be Real Soon Now.

Update November 26th: Okay, so here's the deal. I'm starting to think I have the mythical Writer's Block. I _know_ what's going to happen next—it's all been planned out for _ages_. From the beginning, basically. But, when I'm actually staring at the screen and keyboard, every sentence I write has to be forced out with far more effort than it should take. I'm writing this fic for fun, after all, and every draft of Chapter 27 has been, well, atrocious.

So. I don't know when the next update will be, and I'm _so _sorry. It will happen at some point, and that's a promise, Mister Frodo. Probably in January between terms, but I can't know for certain. I haven't had to deal with this before, and this is a _decidedly_ inconvenient time for it to strike what with all the new readers coming and all. But. I'm sure most of you know this, but if you hit "subscribe" then you'll be the first to know when my block is gone and I stop rolling 1's on Craft (Epic Fanfic) checks.

To re-iterate: I'm _so_ sorry. I'm doing my best. But the more I worry about the late update, the more the update feels like work, and I worry about it _more_ and want to do it _less _and vicious cycles suck. So I need to do some other stuff for a while and avoid thinking about my beloved story, then come back with gusto. And when I do, it'll be epic. I have Very Cool Plans.

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

He was being chased. He couldn't see it, or hear it, but he knew. He wasn't sure what it was. The forest was full of nothing but silence, not even the rustle of leaves caused by a bird or squirrel. That was his first clue.

"Professor? Are you... all right?" The villagers—Muggles, all of them—spoke fearfully, when they'd had too much to drink, of..._ something_ in the woods. When pressed, they'd laugh it off as silly superstition and change the subject. But a slight hesitation in their laughter, a tightness around their eyes...the fear was real. The..._thing_ might be imaginary, but the fear was real.

He could help them. He'd known it. It had been a chance to prove himself, to get some real field experience. Lessons and books were all very well, but he'd been ready for something more. He'd thought it was vampires, in the woods. After all, what could be more frightening than vampires? It would explain the Muggles' reactions.

"Why is he handcuffed? _Alohomora_." And now, he was being chased. And it was gaining on him. It wasn't a vampire. He thought...he might know what it was.

"I think he needs help; we should bring him back to the castle."

He'd forgotten. They'd all forgotten, wizards and witches everywhere had buried their memories. Because there was something worse than vampires. Worse than Dementors. They'd tricked themselves into thinking it was gone. That _he_ was gone. But now, Quirrell knew better.

"And how do you reckon we do that? You have a cart hidden under your robes, Hermione?"

Worse, he knew a way to be free. But he couldn't even allow himself to _think_ about it, because it...because _he_ was always listening. Always. So he had to be careful. He would bide his time.

"Professor Quirrell?"

The use of his name jerked him back into the present. He sat up, and his hand immediately went to his head as the world spun. Quirrell opened his eyes and stared at a worried face. A worried, bespectacled face.

A worried, lightning-scarred face.

He recoiled instinctively, a sudden, unreasoning hatred filling him to the core. Quirrell steadied himself with effort; he was used to the mood swings now, had learned to recognize which emotions were his and which came from..._him_.

"M-mister P-P-Potter," he stammered with his accursed stutter. It had been an act, once, to reduce suspicion. But his act had slipped once too many times, and _he_ had seen to it that it was no longer an act. Quirrell shuddered at the memory. "W-where am I?" That _was_ unusual. The last he had remembered, he'd been planning to take the boy to dispatch some of his tame vampires. _He_ still had several connections in dark places; the filthy creatures in their cave likely still thought he was bringing them the child as blood tribute.

The smirk died on his lips when he realized what must have happened. Suddenly finding himself in an unknown location with no memory of how he got there? There were two possibilities. One, he'd been Memory Charmed. Possible, but unless one of these half-trained children was secretly a Metamorphmagus Auror—or maybe a Polyjuiced Death Eater—he doubted they had the power. The other..._he_ must have taken direct control. There could be no telling what _he_ had done.

"We're...not sure, to be honest, Professor," Potter said. Again, another man's—could _he_ still be called a man?—rage filled him. "We thought you might be able to tell us."

"W-what has h-happened?" Quirrell was, frankly, surprised. Had _he _taken over, he was sure the first thing he'd have done was finished off his mortal enemy.

The four children all began a disjointed story, each starting at different places and clamouring over each other, but Quirrell managed to piece together what, more or less, they were trying to say regardless.

"S-so you s-say D-Death E-Eaters t-took him?" Quirrell frowned. _ Death Eaters?_ That hadn't been part of the plan. Had _he_ changed it, without telling him? There was no way for him to tell, their peculiar bond was very much one-sided.

"But I don't see _how_," Granger said somewhat petulantly. "You _can't_ Apparate or Disapparate within the Hogwarts wards."

"W-we m-m-must be outside them," Quirrell said. "They d-d-don't q-quite cover the f-far edges of the F-Forest."

"We should tell Dumbledore right away," Granger insisted. "He'll know what to do."

"Good thinking," Potter agreed. "Professor, can you walk?" At the mention of the Headmaster's name, he felt a sudden spike of fear through the bond. It always surprised Quirrell that even one such as _he_ could feel something so human as fear.

"N-no," Quirrell said hurriedly. How was he going to talk his way out of this one? He wondered when the last time he'd said something completely true was. "W-we can't t-tell the H-Headmaster j-just yet. D-Dumbledore, f-for all his v-virtues, is overly trusting. H-he will c-certainly t-tell Snape, and your P-P-Potions M-Master will g-go running to his r-r-real master."

"See?" Weasley said. "I _told_ you he was up to no good." Granger coloured slightly, but said nothing.

"We can't just do nothing!" Potter said. "He's in danger." Abbot nodded fervently in agreement.

"I d-don't p-propose we d-do _nothing_," Quirrell said. "j-just let m-me handle it. D-don't talk to D-Dumbledore. In f-fact, d-don't let anyone know you w-were out h-here at all." _He_ was feeling increasingly impatient, and it did not do to keep _him_ waiting. "W-well, if we're r-really outside the w-wards, we'd b-best start h-heading back. It c-could q-quite s-some time." Time they certainly didn't have. If the Death Eaters were brazen enough to abduct Milo this close to Dumbledore's seat of power, they really were active again. _So Lucius is taking a hand in events again_. It had to be him. No-one else had the power and drive to unite _his_ followers who had managed to keep out of Azkaban. Quirrell was somewhat surprised that they had been able to manage even this; he had understood that the best and brightest of _his_ followers lay rotting on the island. Where, he was quick to remind himself, he was certain to go if his true nature was revealed. But...why would they bother? Was it to bring _him_ back? But the boy couldn't even manage that, yet.

Or so he said, anyway.

On the way back to the castle, they passed a large group of dead Acromantulas, of all things. It only took Quirrell a glance to determine what had happened. Something had caused the horrid beasts to turn on each other, but, judging by the pristine corpses lying _above_ the mangled ones, one or more wizards had finished off the lot with the Killing Curse. Must have been Lucius and his cronies.

By the time they reached the castle, it was well past curfew, and after sending the children to their Common Room, Quirrell's footsteps echoed ominously in the hallway alone. He had long since grown out of fearing the dark, but all the same... he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being hunted. Worse, now that he was finally alone—as alone as he could ever be, now—_he _could speak.

"_You lost the boy... were overpowered by an eleven year old..._" That was enough to trigger the memories. The Memory Charm that had been placed upon him was a weak one, from someone whose talents clearly lay in other directions.

A dozen excuses came to mind in an instant: that the boy had powerful magic was the _reason_ they were interested in him, that he would have simply told the Death Eaters he was as good as being the Dark Lord before _he_ had prevented him, that there were six of them and only one of him—but he had learned, painfully, that _he_ did not accept excuses. You simply waited, and hoped _he_ would forgive your failures.

"I-I'm sorry, m-my l-lord. Y-you know w-what happened, I h-have n-no excuse."

"_No, you don't... but you will have this opportunity to redeem yourself... am I not merciful?_"

Quirrell felt a rush of relief that was wholly his own.

"Y-yes, my l-lord." _He_ explained to him his plan as Quirrell hustled to Dumbledore's office, listening carefully. It was a daring move; much could go wrong—and he would be the one to have to modify it on the fly as circumstances changed. No plan lasted much longer than the first contact with the enemy. _He_ could take over his—_their_—body directly, but only for brief periods of time.

"Sherbet Lemon," he said to the gargoyle statue.

Dumbledore—again, that sudden rush of hate, spiked with fear—sat behind his great wooden desk on a comfortable-looking chintz armchair. As Quirrell entered, a glowing silver doe patronus he had never seen before was leaving, presumably having delivered a message of some sort. He glanced at it briefly, frowning. Quirrell himself had been unable to produce one since... _he_ had arrived. Could it be coincidence, the doe arriving on the same night Lucius made his move? It must be. Surely, someone as powerful as the Headmaster received messages of all sorts at every hour of the day.

"Why, Quirinus," Dumbledore said, sounding genuinely pleased to see him. Quirrell tried to fight down _his_ borrowed emotions with limited success. "What brings you here at this hour?"

It was vital that the Headmaster not discover what Lucius had done, because _he_ was still unsure about the possibly-former Death Eater's loyalties. He might still be useful in the future, but not if he were rotting in Azkaban.

"Milo is g-gone," Quirrell said simply. "V-vampires t-took him."

o—o—o—o

Lucius Malfoy frantically rubbed the blinding particles out of his eyes as he surveyed the carnage that had been wrought in the dining hall of his country manor. Some form of skeletal abomination held Nott by the neck with a single overly long arm, and was closing in on the Carrow siblings with a speed that belied its appearance. Crabbe, Goyle, and Macnair were still nowhere to be found. Gibbon and Avery were trapped in some form of giant _web_, of all things, which had appeared from thin air near the centre of the room. Lucius had worked too long and too hard to unite those servants who remained free to lose them to this _boy_. It was time to finish this; the fight had gone on long enough. The situation demanded it—nobody would argue with him on that.

"_Avada Kedavra!_" The boy, who was flying around in circles dodging curses, whirled around with an expression of genuine fear as the Killing Curse flew towards him. The fear was just as swiftly replaced by a grin as he muttered something under his breath; without any form of show or sign of magic, he was gone. The skeletal nightmare stood—or rather, floated—in his place, and simply dropped out of the air. The foolishly-named "Unforgivable" Curse, impossibly, exploded against its ribcage harmlessly.

_How...?_ No time to think. The monster crashed into Jugson, who crumpled with a scream underneath its bony bulk. The boy re-appeared where the skeleton had earlier stood, with a surprised Nott on one side and Amycus and Alecto Carrow on the other. All three lowered their wands at him.

They would have to handle the boy, Lucius had other concerns. The boy's tame pet defenestrated Jugson's body with, if it had had a face, he was sure would have been contempt—and came loping straight at him. Between the thick webs, the ruins of his centuries-old table, and the writhing trapped Death Eaters, Lucius struggled to get a clear shot. He heard a pair of loud booms, six seconds apart with almost musical precision, from the other side of the room. The skeleton leaped, and Lucius realized he only had time for one last Killing Curse. He would have to give it everything he had if it could so contemptuously ignore the earlier one. He began the practiced motions—despite its power, the Killing Curse required only fairly simple wandwork—but stopped. There was no guarantee a second Unforgivable would have any more effect.

"_Petrificus Totalus_!" The nightmare struggled vainly as its arms and legs snapped to its sides, and it crashed into his polished mahogany floor, scoring it with deep gouges that would cost a small fortune to repair. He spun around to find the Carrows and Nott in a tight cluster, cowering before Milo's outstretched left hand. Somehow, they'd all managed to lose their wands—no. Nott's was at his feet, but the Carrows' wand hands were bleeding from toothpick-sized-splinters; Lucius was willing to bet galleons to knuts that those were all that remained of their most prized possessions. _If we survive this_, he decided, _we're all going to start carrying two or three spares._ Ollivander rarely made two of the same wand, but with the right application of pressure... well, everyone had a limit.

"Give it up," Lucius said. "It's over." He would still try to escape—Milo, from what he had seen, was nothing if not tenacious—and Lucius would kill him in the attempt.

"Is it?" Milo replied, his voice nothing but confidence. Merlin, the boy didn't even look tired! "I could have shattered their heads as easily as their wands. I still can. Drop it, Malfoy, and I'll let you live."

_Can he?_ Lucius wondered. He'd seen the boy do the impossible—_he can fly_, he thought with amazement—but if he could simply kill them all... why hadn't he? What's more, why hadn't he already destroyed Lucius' eighteen-inch elm wand like he'd done the Carrows'? And Nott. His wand was still fine. It seemed absurd, but if Lucius had to guess, he'd say... well, the boy was _out_ of magic. As if such a thing could happen. The boy was bluffing! Lucius cursed himself inwardly. The situation could still be salvaged, however, as long as nobody else realized. Other masked Death Eaters were moving to surround him, wands drawn. A slightly wild look about the eyes was the only sign that Milo's confidence was cracking.

"The moment you try," Lucius said slowly, "we'll kill you. There are seven of us," No use counting the de-wanded Carrows, "and one of you." Nott, who had grabbed his wand as soon as Milo's back was turned, and the six remaining active, armed, and unimpeded Death Eaters moved to surround him. Most had been hiding around the edges of the room, as if to escape the notice of this _child_. Cowards. All he had were the dregs; the best—well, all but the _very_ best, of course—had gone to Azkaban. The best, and in many ways, the most foolish. He had little more than contempt for those who confessed to the Wizengamot.

"Yeah, well, there were thirteen of you a moment ago," the boy spat. "And none of _you_ can come back from the dead." He addressed Lucius's followers, now. "How many of you do you think I can kill before I go down? How many of you are wondering what happened to your three guards, in the halls?" The fool's desperate bravado was playing right into his hands.

"Be that as it may," Lucius said, raising his wand. "I think I will be doing the world a favour in k—"

"_Stupefy_." A red Stunner hit the eleven-year-old's chest, and he crumpled to the floor with an expression of faint surprise frozen on his face. Lucius was aghast. He rounded on the fool who had cast, fighting down fury.

"You _idiot_!" he shouted. "What were you thinking!" Lucius paused. He'd nearly given away his plan. "He could have killed all of us!"

"If he could have," Snape's oily voice replied from beneath his mask, "he would have." Lucius fought down his anger, the true reason for his rage could never be known. With a cool confidence he did not feel, he gave the necessary orders. There was much work to do to perform the ritual.

o—o—o—o

Quirrell ducked into a side-room to make the necessary preparations, and also to catch his breath. He'd never had much of a talent for Apparition, and the distance from forest outside Hogwarts to Malfoy's manor had pushed his limit. His eyes barely registered the priceless Persian rug or the painted masterpieces hanging from the walls as he began casting. _He_ had been very specific in his instructions when _he'd_ taught him how to perform these spells. The price of failure—or of telling anyone the secrets—would be heavy. Too heavy.

Quirrell glanced at a polished silver mirror hanging on the wall as he began. One spell to turn his eyes red, another to shroud him in darkness. One to change his face—he gasped as his nose turned to slits, like a snake's—another to change his voice, and a third to alter his robes. He suppressed a shudder, looking at the mirror, as he saw a near-perfect replica of the Dark Lord staring back at him. Wonderingly, he touched his now-unfamiliar face.

Somehow, Quirrell knew that these were _not_ the spells the Dark Lord had used to appear like this. He hoped to never learn the truth of the matter. _He_ had given him permission, in this one instance, to pose as his master. It was necessary. The fools who called themselves Death Eaters would fall in line immediately and turn over the boy they captured; Merlin knew why they'd done it.

A pale, bony hand turned the brass doorknob—his hand, for now—as he stepped out into the hallway, wand in hand. Quirrell strode confidently down the hallway, past an unmoving Death Eater's body—dead or unconscious, he neither knew nor particularly cared—and, briefly, past a window. It was then that he heard the unmistakable _crack!_ of a Disapparating wizard. Close to twenty of them, like an erratic staccato beat, followed by, of all things, the hoot of a barn owl. He looked outside and saw uniformed Aurors appearing all around the field, eyes wary for danger and wands held at the ready. But it wasn't the Aurors that caught his eye.

Dumbledore led them, a brilliant phoenix riding his shoulder. A mad rush of terror swept through him, making his knees turn weak and his hand tremble. _How did he know to come here?_ He wondered. He'd been certain the Headmaster had bought his story hook, line, and sinker.

"_Dismiss the spells! Hide!_" _He_ said. Quirrell did not need to be told twice.

"_Finite!_" he cast. "_Finite! Finite! Finite! Finite Incantatem!_" One by one, the spells disguising his appearance ended, and Quirrell wrapped his purple turban back around his head with quick, practiced motions.

o—o—o—o

"It didn't work," Amycus said flatly. Lucius was stunned. After everything he'd gone through to avoid the ritual being performed with a living subject, he'd finally resigned himself to defeat only to be faced with... this. It was unexpected.

"Perhaps," Alecto mused, "she doesn't want to return?" They'd done everything right, he was sure of it. He knew that a single misspoken word could result in disaster, but when they'd completed the ritual the change should have been unmade. Instead..._this_. Milo stirred feebly on the table.

"I somehow doubt we need their permission," Lucius drawled. "Or we never would have been able to summon him in the first place." He tried to keep the elation out of his tone. Like most in the magical world, he was hardly a religious man, but now more than ever he was certain that if there really _were_ a God out there, he was on Lucius's side. He'd been given another chance to make his plan work. "In fact—" he cut off as he heard the hoot of a barn owl. The elaborate system of wards around his manor had, of course, nothing on Hogwarts—but it _did_ tell him when someone Apparated onto the grounds. "It appears members of the law enforcement community have decided to pay a call. Gibbon, Avery—guard the prisoner and keep your heads down. The rest of you know what to do." With a series of cracks, the other Death Eaters vanished into thin air. This wasn't the first time the DMLE had decided to raid his manor, but they wouldn't find any more than they ever did. Oh, he always left a _few_ minor illicit trinkets and dark objects around, anything else would be suspicious—but in the end, it would amount to nothing more than a slap on the wrist.

Lucius stepped out of the ritual chamber in his basement and tapped the door behind him with his wand. Wooden boards, curled up around the entrance, unfurled with a groan to cover the door. The gap in the wall was seamless; a Malfoy in the distant past had found an apprentice to the master wizard who had hidden Diagon Alley to do the job. Not even Lucius knew what had happened to his body, after he was done. None but his inner circle knew of this hidden chamber, and _nobody_ still living knew the trick to opening it. Lucius transfigured his mask into oil (which he poured into a lamp nearby, he doubted anyone would ever find _that_ when the spell wore off) and went out to greet Amelia Bones like a friend coming over for tea. He felt tremors in the floor along the way, but ignored them.

o—o—o—o

Quirrell knew the plan needed changing. It always came to this; he'd gotten quite good at thinking on his feet. Despite what looked to him like half the Ministry's magical might knocking down the doors, _he_ would settle for no less than complete victory. Quirrell cast a Disillusionment charm and shuddered as the icy feeling came over him. Before meeting _him_ in the forests of Albania, he'd never had a knack for combat magic, but he'd _always_ been good at these. Hiding was something of a specialty for him.

Strolling down the corridors of the richly-appointed house, he quickly found the small service staircase. The house rocked suddenly, but Quirrell had more pressing matters than the inevitable conflict between the Aurors and Death Eaters around. What the purpose of a staircase for servants in a wizard's house was, Quirrell had no idea (House Elves could simply snap their fingers and Apparate). The stairs led him through narrow corridors winding about in plain backrooms and servant's chambers (maybe the house had belonged to Muggles at some point, although it seemed out of Lucius's character to live anywhere that their touch had sullied) until he came to the otherwise unremarkable stretch of wall that _he_ had directed him to. Quirrell tapped the wall with his wand, and was astonished to find a hidden doorway revealed.

"_Alohomora_." The door behind popped open, and even _his_ usual control broke. "Merlin's beard!"

o—o—o—o

"As you can see," Lucius said to Amelia Bones, the head of the DMLE, while the two strode through the hallways of his mansion near his front entrance, "once again, my home has been attacked by the most brazen thieves I have ever seen. Fortunately, the timely intervention of the Ministry's finest has apparently frightened them off. I am, of course, eternally in your debt." Bones eyed him skeptically. He knew the aged witch had strong suspicions of him, but he _also_ knew that she would never act on them without definite proof. Which was why men—and, of course, women—of principles always lost to those like him, who were free of such... constraints. Dumbledore, who had no official ministry standing, contented himself by waiting outside—for now.

Lucius led her towards his sitting room. "I'll have Dobby bring us some tea while your men search the house for the other thieves," he said, opening the door. "Though I doubt you'll find—" shooting up through the centre of his luxurious room was a great oak tree. The floorboards were bent and buckled around it, as was the ceiling. "Merlin!" he gasped. He couldn't help himself. Even Bones, who was rumoured to chew iron ore and spit nails, widened her eyes. Tangled among the branches were Gibbon and Avery, struggling vainly to escape.

Both were still wearing their masks.

Bones stared at the vista before her, shocked beyond belief. He knew he had to act quickly, or things could quickly become...embarrassing.

Lucius hesitated only seconds.

"Death Eater scum!" he gasped. "Call in your Aurors!"

o—o—o—o

Milo picked himself out from among the leaves and branches and climbed onto the Malfoy manor' tiled roof. _Note to self: _never again _use a Tree Token as an elevator_. Being slammed facefirst into four stories of old, hard wood was _not_ his idea of fun. He looked over the edge and sighed.

"At least I'm not jumping through glass this time. _Feather Fall_."


	27. Omake: HP:MoMunchkinality

Author's Notes: Hey, y'all! Two things were recently discovered, one by me, and one by you. By me: my creativity isn't broke! And by you: I'm not dead!

Thanks to all of the encouraging PM's you lot have sent. Seriously, I have the best fans _ever_. By way of thank you, I give you, Sir Poley's Essay Procrastination Project! (Now in Technicolour(TM)). Or, in other words, what if... Milo was sucked into a _slightly different_ Harry Potter universe? I present, in all of its 535-word, 45-minutes-of-typing-glory, **Harry Potter and the Methods of Munchkinality.**

The next HP:N20 chapter will come out Real Soon Now.

EDIT: Just to clarify: This chapter has _no bearing_ on the plot of Harry Potter and the Natural 20. It's a non-canonical sidestory.

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

"So tell me, Harry, what's all this _physics_ nonsense that you keep going on about?" Milo asked.

Harry was... unusual, even in this world where the unusual was commonplace. He seemed, at times, almost like someone from Milo's own world—he was, for example, more than capable of predicting what would happen next based on convention and the patterns of story, but... sometimes, he was beyond alien. The strange little boy's insistence on the fundamental rules of the universe was simply baffling. Couldn't he _feel_ the dice rolling? Couldn't he _see_ that time was divided into discrete, six-second intervals?

"Oh, well, it's simple, really. You see..." Harry spun an amazingly elaborate web of rules and laws and equations, talking about Force (how a damage type could be measured in units other than Hit Points, or have anything to do with mass was simply insane), Power, Friction, and Energy. Most confusing of all was this business of _conservation_. Conservation of momentum, conservation of energy. How could he stand there, insisting that mass must be conserved when a Wizard could wave his hand and create thousands of pounds of stone wall?

"And this—honestly, you have to swear that you're not pulling my leg here—is seriously how this Plane works?"

"Pretty much," he shrugged. "It's a good deal more complicated than that, but we have to start somewhere."

"Because, well, I'm pretty sure I can get around that," Milo said.

"Around what?" Harry was curious.

"All of it."

_Three weeks later..._

"Looks like you were right. Even a Horcrux can't take being _Polymorphed_ into positrons. Shame about what happened to the rest of the island, though."

_Another three weeks later..._

"Okay, _you_ can be the Supreme Muggle—" Milo conceded, lounging on his golden throne.

"Mugwump," Harry interjected.

"Whatever. _And_ you can be the Minister for Magic. _But_, I get to lead the Outer Planes Expeditionary Force, with first right to any magic items seized therein."

"Don't you think we should focus on the Inner Planes, first? We'll need those Earth Elementals. I mean, _somebody_ needs to rebuild Scotland." Harry shuddered. The collateral damage of their last experiment had been... unanticipated. "Though I don't think we should abandon the Commoner Railgun Project altogether."

"Psht. Once we finish overthrowing the gods, I'll Candle of Invocation us up some Lyres of Building. It's not even a thing."

"As for the terraforming of Mars, have you had any thoughts on how to keep a _Gate_ to the Plane of Water open long enough to fill the—" Harry cut off as the telephone rang. He gave a lazy wave, and a hulking Shield Guardian handed him the handset then discreetly bowed and walked back to his place by the wall. Harry listened for a moment, then said, "Speaking. Yeah? Uh-huh? Yes, that's fine. That would be perfectly acceptable. No, don't worry, we'll come to you. Yes, we know where to find you." He hung up and tossed the phone back at the Construct, who caught it with mechanical precision.

"Who was that?" Milo asked. He was still having a hard time getting used to all this Muggle technology.

"The UN," Harry answered. "They've decided to comply with our demands."

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

To clarify for the confused some of the in-jokes:

**The Commoner Railgun:** this takes advantage of a quirk in the D&D rules that any decent DM wouldn't allow, but is still hilarious. The idea is that, in a six second round, everyone gets to act. Theoretically they're acting simultaneously, but they actually go in turns. On your turn, you can pass an object to someone standing next to you... _before_ they get to act. They can then pass that same thing to someone standing next to _them_, etc.. So, in six seconds, an object can be passed 5N feet, where N is the number of people (in most examples, starving commoners) passing the object, which, therefore, moves at a velocity of 5N/6 feet-per-second. With enough commoners lined up, you can launch something at relativistic speeds. (Weirdly, this means the object gets held by each commoner for up to six seconds, despite being passed by thousands of people in a six-second period. Aaaaagh, my aching head.) This could be used to, say, launch something into space on the cheap. It's limited only by what the commoners can lift.

**The Polymorph Bomb: **_Polymorph Any Object_ is a high level spell that turns 1 cubic foot/caster level of something into something else, with a duration based on the similarity of the original and end materials. It has a lot of fun uses, but my personal favourite involves mixing my cursory knowledge of real-world physics and magic - positrons. From what I know, positrons are like electrons, but antimatter. So they all repel each other, because of their positive charge, but when they collide with matter (in this case, a large island), the two are annihilated and explode. I think. Again, I'm a Classical Studies Major. The point is, _big_ boom. Probably earth-shattering.

**Lyre of Building:** this is just a magical stringed instrument that, when you play it, stuff gets magically built, like, _really_ fast.


	28. Chapter 27: Enchanter's End Game

Some time before 7 AM, the villagers of Hogsmeade were surprised to find a dirty, bloodied, half-dead (or rather, four-thirteenths, to be precise, since you asked) young boy stumble into their village.

Again.

But, today, the boy didn't look exhausted. He didn't _look_ lost, or confused, or afraid, or even hungry (making him practically unique among eleven-year-olds everywhere).

He just looked determined.

"Someone tell Dumbledore," he said to a random NPC. "I need help."

"I'm right here in front of you," the NPC replied sullenly.

The boy blinked, and, his mask of determination briefly broken, evidently decided to reconcile the apparent impossibility in front of him by ignoring it. Just as quickly as he appeared, the NPC, as far as the boy was concerned, was deleted from existence, as was all non-plot-relevant information in the town. Shops, taverns, and potential bolt-holes were taken in with a glance and carefully categorized and noted for future use. Houses, paving stones, magical streetlights, owls, and trashbins were summarily dismissed as irrelevant, never even making it to his conscious brain.

"Well," the boy said aloud. "I suppose there's nothing else for it." Without a glance backwards, as if Hogsmeade had no further use for him, the boy strode out of the town and towards the castle.

"Nobody ever wants to send for _me_," Aberforth said, sounding slightly disappointed.

o—o—o—o

Harry was surprised to find Professor Quirrell tapping his feet impatiently by the Fat Lady when he stumbled through the portal, bleary-eyed and ready for breakfast. He'd hardly gotten any sleep the night before; he, Ron, and Hermione had stayed awake worrying about Milo. The only thing that held him back from charging off to rescue his friend headfirst was the simple fact that none of them had any idea where the Death Eaters had apparated to. Hannah had vanished into the girls' dormitories early in the evening to be by herself.

"Professor?" Harry asked, bouncing with anticipation. "Have you found him?" There was no need to mention who he was talking about.

"Y-yes," Quirrell said grimly, then softened slightly. "I-I'm s-sorry, H-Harry. I know he was a friend of yours."

Icy tendrils gripped Harry's heart.

"You don't—you can't mean—he isn't..." he trailed off lamely.

"N-not yet," the Professor said. "B-but at this p-point, it's really only a matter of t-time. He was hit by a powerful curse. I'm s-sorry, Harry."

He couldn't believe it. It was impossible. The strange boy had, despite his oddities, quickly become one of Harry's best friends. Milo had once faced down a Troll and very nearly not gotten thrown out a window. He couldn't believe it would end like this; it felt _wrong_. Unfair. Like he'd been cheated out of something.

"Isn't there _anything_ that can be done?" Harry insisted. "We have all this weird, wondrous, _crazy_ magic. There must be _something_—have you taken him to Madam Pomfrey? Or Saint Mungo's? Where is he—can I see him?"

"He's at Saint M-M-Mungo's," Quirrell explained. "But he's unconscious; their b-b-best healers are w-w-working on him. Unfortunately, they d-d-don't know where to b-b-begin, his physiology is s-so different from ours. He's slipping f-fast. I'm s-sorry to be the one to t-t-tell you."

No. Harry refused to let this happen.

"We can save him," Harry insisted.

"I know y-you're d-distraught—" Quirrell began, but Harry was in no mood for condescension. He didn't feel distraught, oddly—he just felt determined. There was something that had to be done, and he would do it.

"There's something in this castle that can cure any illness," Harry said slowly. "It can save him. I'm sure of it."

Quirrell looked stunned.

"Surely, you d-d-don't mean..."

"Yes. We need the Philosopher's Stone."

o—o—o—o

Milo Amastacia-Liadon slammed open the Hogwarts front gates, casting an embarrassingly short shadow (an eleven-year-old's stature does not generally lend itself to appropriate levels of drama) down the front hallway; the rising sun blazing a brilliant orange behind him.

"Oh, has the ickle-wickle firstie snuck out again?" came a taunting, mocking voice from the air above him. Casually sidestepping a dropped bucket of whitewash—honestly, warning him before attacking? Fastest way to waste a Surprise Round against Flat-Footed AC he knew of—Milo glanced at the poltergeist. Just glanced. It had taken him the better part of a day to walk to Hogsmeade from the Malfoy Manor—_again_—not including the night he spent in the wilderness to regain his spells. He'd come too far, there was too much at stake, for him to be distracted by an undead clown with poor fashion sense. He couldn't see his own expression, of course, but whatever it was made Peeves's pale (to the extent that a poltergeist is able to, that is) and bolt clear through the wall.

Striding up the stairs to Dumbledore's secret office—Hermione thought having the Headmaster's office password-protected and isolated from the students contributed to an atmosphere of fear and suspicion, but Milo thought it was simply practical—even though he knew the headmaster wouldn't be there. He didn't know _where_ Dumbledore would be, or what the Headmaster was doing, but one thing was for sure: the Otyugh was about to hit the _Blade Barrier_, and, for that to happen, all powerful, friendly NPCs must go.

That said, Milo's Plot-sense had been wrong before, so he at least had to go through the motions.

"Sherbet Lemon," he said, and the gargoyle corkscrewed upwards.

Cautiously—Quirrell must know Milo would drop by Dumbledore's office before heading for him; there was always the possibility of a trap—he climbed the stairs and peered into the perennially buzzing, clicking, and whirring room.

No Dumbledore. No Fawkes, even.

"Nerull's knees!" Milo cursed. Sometimes, he hated being right. Milo turned around, intending to head to the fateful third-floor corridor. He always knew it would come to this.

"Wait!" It was Mordy's voice. He stopped reflexively; the familiar hadn't yet led him astray.

"Why?" Milo asked. "For all we know, he's already got the Stone and is halfway to his master."

"Remember what we decided about going alone?" The rat, sitting on Milo's shoulder, asked. "And, for example, what a _terrible idea_ it is? No Class is a Party."

"They're not ready," Milo objected. "They could die." Hannah could die.

"Then we'll tip the Cleric. Worse things have happened, and can we really afford to pick and choose? We'll _need_ them. Can't you _feel_ it?"

The worst part of it was that he _could_. Just as he knew he had to first go to Dumbledore, he _knew_, in his heart of hearts, that he'd need backup—even low-level backup.

"All right."

Milo had to force himself not to sprint down the winding, ever-shifting corridors to the Gryffindor Common Room—any time gained by running would likely be lost being harassed by Filch, who viewed any student running as an excuse to chase. He was assuming they were in the Common Room. He hoped they were. He could use magic to find them, of course, but he needed to save his spells for what was to come next.

"Well, well, well," a particularly grating voice taunted. "What have we here? Little freak, all by himself?"

"Draco," Milo said to the pale, blonde-haired boy with false cheerfulness. Crabbe and Goyle were flanking him, standing exactly half a step behind him like the rear wheels of a tricycle. They probably drilled the formation. "I met your dad last night. Kicked his ass, too."

"Why, you lit—" Milo didn't even wait for the Slytherin to finish his trite, clichéd comeback. With a smooth motion, he pulled his darkwood quarterstaff from his belt and gave Draco a good, solid whack to the stomach. The expression of surprise on the spoiled boy's face was worth a fortune—okay, well, maybe a few hundred gp, tops. Milo wasn't willing to invest a significant amount of his allotted Wealth-By-Level in anything involving what amounted to a schoolyard bully. Of course, the WBL system had been shot to Pandemonium by Harry's massive inheritance. _The sentiment still stands_.

Crabbe and Goyle, torn between wanting to help their master and take vengeance from Milo's hide, hesitated one crucial second.

Milo's combat skills, especially his Base Attack Bonus, were pitiful—by the standards of another Class of equivalent Level. However, from what he could tell, the local wizards (inexplicably) didn't seem to improve in hand-to-hand combat _at all_ unless they deliberately trained in it. While this made no sense to Milo—_everyone_ knew that sufficient practice in anything that grants Experience Points improves _all_ aspects of one's Character—he had no qualms taking advantage of it. Crabbe and Goyle were moderately competent fighters (for eleven-year-olds), but Milo had them lying on their backs in twelve seconds, flat.

With a needlessly showy twirl, he sheathed his quarterstaff back into his extradimensional space and continued on toward his destination, not bothering to look back.

Malfoy and his cronies would be back later, Milo was sure. Recurring villains were like pimples on a teenager in that sense. The harder you tried to finish them off, the more likely they were to show up the night of the Hallowe'en dance when you're trying to impress Lisa Sanders from Home Ec. One day, with a few more Levels under their belts, they'd likely be a genuine threat. But until that day... they could talk to the stick.

Milo left them, shocked and gasping for breath, on the hallway floor. A few minutes later, he rounded the final corner and arrived at a familiar portrait.

"Password?" asked the Fat Lady.

"Squeak," Milo answered impatiently, and the portrait obligingly swung open.

"Milo!" Hermione and Ron, who were (conveniently, Milo noted) evidently just about to leave Gryffindor Tower for breakfast and class, stared at him in surprise.

"How did you escape?" Ron was stunned. "The last we saw of you, you were being carried away by—"

"Hold up," Hermione said, cutting him off. "How do we know you're really you this time? For all we know, you're another doppelganger."

"_Another_ Doppelganger?" Milo gasped. "I didn't realize you had those here, as well. And I won't be able to cast _True Seeing_ for, like, five levels!"

"Okay, nevermind," Hermione said with relief. "It's really you. How'd you get away?"

"No time," Milo said. He'd tell them later, in the Post-Adventure Between-Session Downtime Assumed Debrief. Nobody ever had time to waste telling people what happened when they weren't there for adventures for one reason or another. Instead, they'd handle it in the time between scenes, like sleeping or item crafting.

"Where's Harry?" Milo asked. The plot here clearly revolved around the Boy-Who-Lived, and Milo wasn't about to embark on a potentially campaign-changing adventure without him. Besides, Milo had seen his _Expelliarmus_ in action (and been on the receiving end on more than one occasion).

"No idea," Ron said. "He left ages ago to get breakfast; haven't seen him since."

Milo sighed. "And you didn't think to check up on that? No, I know, it's not your fault, you didn't know. By the way, Quirrell's our guy. He's been evil all along."

"Wh—"

"No time, I'll explain along the way. Let's move."

"Where are we going?" Hermione asked curiously.

"Where else?" Milo asked. "The forbidden third-floor corridor. It was always going to end there, one way or another."

"So, about Quirrell. I can't believe he's really—" Hermione began skeptically.

o—o—o—o

"—he's really evil. I can't believe it," she said, stunned, as they approached the forbidden door and Milo finished his boring, off-screen exposition. "We should tell Dumbledore."

"Can't," Milo said. "Believe it or not, I tried that already—"

"—You did _what_? I mean, Quirrell was surprising enough, but _you_? Going to a legitimate authority figure in a time of crisis? I mean, what is the world coming to?"

"—and he wasn't in his office, obviously."

"What do you mean, obviously?" Ron asked, his forehead wrinkled.

Milo was about to launch into an explanation of how the powerful NPC ally _had_ to be out of the way to move the plot forward—Milo suspected an explanation would be forthcoming eventually about how he had important paperwork to do in East Nowhere or something—but, surprisingly, Hermione beat him to it.

"No, it makes perfect sense. I mean, think about it," she said. "Quirrell wouldn't make his move for the Stone if Dumbledore was actually _in_ the castle. That would be like trying to, I don't know, hold up a police station or kidnap an auror: suicide. So he waited this long to make his move."

"...Right," Milo added. "What she said. Excellent deduction, grasshopper."

"_Grass_—" she sputtered indignantly.

"Team! Focus! Big wooden door to get past, boy wizard to save," Ron said with exasperation.

"Oh, right," Hermione said. "_Aloho_—"

"—Wait!" Milo cried.

"What?" she asked testily. "I was just about to unlock it."

"No, you weren't. Do you think they'd lock the Philosopher's Stone behind a door that could be opened by a first-year student—even a brilliant first-year student—in a _school for magic_? The door is likely trapped. Dumbles even warned us: 'the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds for anyone who does not want to die a horrible and painful death.' It's trapped with something _gnarly_. Probably the wanded wizard equivalent of a _Fire Trap_ or something."

"Good point," Hermione said, looking somewhat pale.

"How did you remember his exact wording like that?" Ron asked. "You can't remember _anything_. Remember the Cuddly Cannons?"

"No, I don't. I just used Autohypnosis to memorize the Plot last time I had a chance to see it. Took a while with, er..." he was going to say 'with my low Wisdom,' but at the last minute changed it to "the primordial forces Arcane being as they were. The ley lines were all a-flux," Milo had once heard a Bard futilely try to make a Spellcraft check, and quoted him mercilessly, "and there was a fae disturbance in the realms of spirit, beyond the veil."

"So, what do you suggest we do, exactly?" Hermione asked.

Milo shrugged. His usual plan was to send the Rogue in, tied to a rope (thus making it easier to retrieve the body, and all her ill-gotten loot). "Torch the door."

"What?" Hermione looked at him as if he had just suggested she sell her mother to Goblin slavers. "Why?"

"We know this isn't the only layer of defence—there used to be a giant three-headed dog on the other side of this wall, and presumably there's more beyond. This door is to keep out _thieves_, not a frontal assault. That comes later. Dumbledore probably assumed that anyone crazy enough to try to destroy a door in the middle of a public hallway would be caught by passerbys."

"Passersby," Hermione corrected idly, obviously thinking hard. "And I think you're wrong. Dumbledore doesn't think nearly as twisty as you do, and he wouldn't put a trapped door in the middle of what was, as you pointed out, a public hallway. He's more the type to _say_ the door led to certain death, but, really, still give the person sneaking through more than one chance to escape with their life. That dog you mentioned was chained down—_out of reach_ of the doorway. So someone _accidentally_ breaking in could see the dog and, if they have any sense, which by the way we seem not to have, flee. The door is only locked."

"You might be right," Milo conceded, "except on one point. Dumledore's mind is twistier than mine could ever be."

"_Alohomora_," Hermione cast as Milo discreetly moved to stand behind Ron, just in case.

The lock clicked open.

"Right," Milo said. "We have no idea what's on the other side of this door. Quirrell killed the dog already, passing it off as necessary to save Hermione. He could have replaced it with _anything_. Trolls, Giants," he glanced at Ron and grinned, "Giant Trolls, Dragons, whatever."

"What's your point?" Ron asked. "We're going in anyway. We both know it."

"What I'm saying is: be ready for anything." Milo calmly drew his staff and traded his knife from his extradimensional Belt pocket to a more-easily-reached sheath, then checked his Magic Items to be certain. Robe, Belt, Amulet, Gloves, Headband, check. He took a deep breath. "All right, party. It's taken us long enough. Let's do this thing," and pushed the door open with his gloved hand.

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

Author's Notes: _I'm Back._

AKA "We now return you to your regularly-scheduled _fantastic fan fiction._"

AAKA If you don't get the reference in the chapter title, go read _anything_ by David (and Leigh) Eddings. You won't regret it.

AAAKA Merry Christmas, Internet.

(But seriously, short updates suck – but better short than never. I decided to stop being a perfectionist and just release it, warts and all. Fixing of typos and whatnot will come later. If this keeps up, I'll have your next update Thursday or Friday of next week.)


	29. Chapter 28: Grappling with the Rules

Author's Notes: Another short chapter – but at least I'm on time! This will continue until I get back into the swing of things.

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

The locked door swung open without making a sound. Inside was a familiar, large, dark room.

"Some lights all 'round, yeah?" Milo asked quietly. He'd do it himself, but he had to conserve his magic—even the cantrips—until the final confrontation. With no discernible limit (as far as he could tell) on the number of spells they could cast each day, Milo needed to rely on them to get him to Quirrell.

But that was the proper state of affairs. It felt _right_ to him. All that solo adventuring? That was unnatural. Wizards, while hardly social creatures, _do_ operate best in groups of less-arcane, more-giant-sword-wielding, possessor-of-the-mighty-thews, slayer-of-many-a-fell-beast, meat shields. Or, failing that, friends—Milo still couldn't believe he was using that term and meant it—with magic.

It was like being in a party again. Even if it was a party entirely composed of squishy wizards.

"_Lumos_," Hermione and Ron muttered, and the tips of their wands began to glow like torches.

"Blimey," Ron said.

"Merlin," Hermione said in a whisper.

"Indeed," Milo agreed, staring into the room. This was _most_ unexpected.

The room was empty.

"Well," Milo said. "That was most unexpected. I suppose they _haven't _gotten around to replacing the dog, after all. Shall we?" He gestured to the trap door that lay beneath where Fluffy once sat.

"You know," Ron said idly, "I seem to remember this room being, well, _bigger_ last time we were here."

"Now that you mention it," Milo said, "I think you're right. I mean, it _is_ big—"

"—but not _that_ big, you know?" Ron said.

"Yeah. Weird."

"It is _not _weird," Hermione said. "Honestly, haven't _any_ of you _ever _read _Hogwarts: A History_?"

"I have, actually," Milo said. He'd _Scholar's Touch_'d it a while back, but remembering things read in a flash like that was tricky, much like having a photograph shoved in front of your face, only to be yanked away again a second later. Sure, you _saw _the picture, but it doesn't quite sink in the same way as if you had carefully perused it.

"Space is somewhat... flexible in the castle, because of the sheer concentrated magic of the place" she explained. "Makes it easy to resize certain rooms with a powerful enough Enlargement Charm. They must have done so to fit the dog in—I mean, there's no earthly reason a _school_ would have a random room big enough to hold a Cerberus, right?"

"Oh, I dunno," Ron said dreamily. "I can think of one or two."

"Let me guess," she asked. "Slytherin disposal chute?"

"Actually, I was thinking, 'know-it-all containment chamber,' but your way works, too." After that, Ron fell silent and stared at the trapdoor. Their unimportant conversation was simply to put off the inevitable, and they all knew it. None of them knew what lay beyond that trap door, but one thing was for certain: there wouldn't be any more freebies like this room had been.

Milo grabbed the heavy wrought-iron ring of the trapdoor and pulled. It opened with an oily squeak which rang through the oversized, silent room. Through the trapdoor lay a deep, dark shaft. Ron reached down with his lit wand, which cast a pale white light on the walls of the shaft.

There was no bottom in sight.

"_Light_," Milo muttered, fetching a Knut from his pocket. The coin lit up, and with a sigh (Milo _hated_ throwing money away, even other people's money) tossed it into the pit. They all leaned over and watched the bronze coin fall for what seemed like ages, before finally it ceased moving at what looked like _miles_ underground. Of course, it was probably only _extremely_ far down, and not quite as _ridiculously_ far as it appeared, but one never knew when wizards were involved.

A second later the coin went dark.

"Spell doesn't last very long, eh?" Ron asked.

"No," Milo said slowly. "It lasts for hours."

"So, what happened? Some sort of counterspell?" Ron asked, looking meaningfully at Hermione.

"Don't look at me like _I _know the answer," she huffed indignantly. "If there's one thing we've learned, it's that none of us have _any _idea what to expect when Milo's magic encounters our own. I don't even know if a counterspell would _work_."

As she spoke, Milo noticed a brief glimmer of light from the bottom of the pit.

"It's still on down there," he said. "It's just... covered by something."

"Something moving, it would appear," Hermione agreed.

"You don't think... you don't think it might be spiders, do you, mate?" Ron asked shakily.

"Nah," Milo said. "Can't be spiders."

"Well, that's good," Ron said. "But, er, why can't it be?"

"Because we've already fought spiders too many times this campaign. I bet it's scorpions." Milo paused, thinking. He had fifty feet of silk rope (of course), but that hole as _far_ deeper than fifty feet. Maybe, if they all jumped close enough together, he could _Feather Fall_ them before the end? But what if there was something dangerous on the ground? Perhaps if they were _Feather Fall_-ing, one of them could hammer a piton into the wall near the bottom of the pillar and use it to—

"Right then," Ron said, and jumped in without hesitation.

There was a moment of crystalline silence, where Milo and Hermione stared at each other in absolute shock.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" she asked, her voice sounding somewhat strained. "We have to go after him!"

Milo swallowed, and they jumped in together. They were in complete darkness, save for the light of Hermione's wand and that of Ron's far below them, tumbling down an _impressively_ deep pit. Milo, despite himself, lost track of how many increments of ten feet (and thus, how much damage he'd take upon landing) somewhere distressingly close to terminal velocity. Gritting his teeth, he shook his hands free of his sleeves and readied an action.

"_Feather Fall!_" he shouted, and the two of them slowed to a gentle drift barely a few feet before touching the ground.

"Ron!" Hermione shouted. "Ron, are you al—all right?" Milo had a sneaking suspicion of what Hermione was going to ask before she caught herself.

"Nah, I'm fine," came his cheerful voice. "There's this soft plant thing I landed on, it's lucky, really." Milo realized embarrassedly that he'd been so distracted thinking about Ron that he hadn't properly taken stock of his surroundings. Ron was lying on the ground nearby on a thick, green carpet of slender vines. The lit Knut was nowhere to be seen. "Dumbledore must have had this thing planted to keep people falling from being hurt. Mind, a mattress would have done, too."

"No..." Milo said, thinking. That seemed wrong to him.

Suddenly, Hermione shrieked. Snaklelike tendrils of vine, moving with deceptive speed, wrapped themselves around her legs to the knee. "It's Devil's Snare!" She shouted.

"Sorry, is that supposed to mean something to me—Merlin's Beard!" Tendrils pounced like a cat, and suddenly Ron was gone.

"Crap, crap crapcrap_crap!_" Milo swore, trying to avoid the vines. Despite his efforts, he found his muscles refusing to respond and his feet remained firmly planted (so to speak) to the ground. He fought down a groan. He had no idea what to do or how to move—he'd never understood the Grapple rules. _Nobody_ understood the Grapple rules!

The vines managed to grab hold of Hermione's wand hand, and, while it looked like she was struggling to say something, they were covering her mouth as well. Oddly, they seemed to be largely ignoring Milo, who was still locked up with immobility. He frowned and tried to ignore Hermione and Ron's muffled screams as he focused on what the page(s) describing the rules looked in like in the Rulebook. If he could remember _that_, maybe he could remember what they said. He remembered a distinct lack of pictures or explanatory illustrations (that would require the initial writers of the Rulebook to understand the Grapple rules, and, of course, they did not). He knew his Grapple bonus was +2, but only because that was on his character sheet. He didn't know how that was calculated or even what it was used for. Maybe if he...

"Ah, screw it. _Levitate_." He cast the spell, not at himself, but at Hermione. His magic effortlessly pulled her out of the tangled vines (one thing he _could_ remember was that, while grappling, you 'can't move normally,' but being _Levitated_ could hardly be considered _normal_, now could it?). However, the Snare seemed to have finally taken note of him, and a cluster of twisting tendrils jumped at him. Milo snorted and clubbed one of the approaching vines with his staff. To his surprise, the rest seemed to recoil in what seemed like _pain_ and avoided him — for now. "Hermione!" Milo shouted at his newly liberated friend. "Do something smart—Aaaagh!" The vines jumped him in force, and Milo, for the first time in his life, wished he'd taken the Combat Reflexes feat. He was dimly aware that initiating a Grapple attempt provoked an Attack of Opportunity (AoO) from the defender, which, if it hit, negated the attempt. Evidently, this vine was capable of multiple attacks per round, but Milo could only make one AoO. Still unable to resist (he didn't even know what check to make to begin to do so), the vines effortlessly lifted him from the floor bodily and pinned him up against the wall. Cold, damp darkness coated him, shutting out most of the light.

Somehow, Hermione had managed to maintain a firm grip on her wand while being pinned. Hermione muttered a spell—Milo didn't catch the name of it—and a jet of pale blue fire launched out of her wand in a carefully controlled burst. Milo felt the vines immediately loosen from around him, and with relief he sagged to the ground. They retreated to the sides of the room and remained perfectly still, as if they were a normal, non-animated plant. He heard the ringing clink of a coin dropping, and his lit Knut illuminated the room. Ron was gasping for breath on the floor, but was otherwise all right.

It was only then that Milo got a clear view of the Devil's Snare. Weirdly, the vines were streaked with a sickly, pale yellow and brown. Judging by the thick mat on the ground, they'd been shedding leaves for some time now, and dead tendrils coated the floor.

"Weird," he muttered. Why use a plant-based trap if you weren't going to take proper care of it?

"How did you know?" Hermione asked, looking at him.

"What?"

"That the Devil's Snare is attracted to movement! The harder you struggle, the more it fights. I can't _believe_ I forgot that, I feel like _such_ an idiot."

"Right. Yes, that's exactly why I wasn't moving. The very reason indeed." That must have been why the Devil's Snare only jumped him when he cast a spell—the movement had attracted it. "Why did it run away like that?"

"Fire," Hermione said. "It's scared of fire—we learned that in Herbology, remember? Actually, I'm amazed you forgot _that_ and remembered how it senses prey, because that's _far_ more obscure..."

"Just slipped my mind for a minute," Milo lied. "Let's push ahead, eh? Villain to defeat, hero to save, all that."


	30. Chapter 29: Check Mate, Mate

"Well, crap," Milo muttered. "That right there is a _Hell_ of a lot of keys."

There were thousands of tiny golden, silver, and brass keys fluttering about the chamber, somewhat reminiscent of Golden Snitches—if the semi-sentient sporting equipment were somehow integral to solving the plot and defeating a powerful dark wizard. (Psh).

"So... what," Ron mused, "we have to find the right one? That's like looking for a, well, a key in a stack of keys. _Moving_ keys. Blimey, this will take the rest of our lives."

"Assuming we could even grab them," Hermione added. "They're pretty high up there. _Or_, you know, I could save the lot of us a lifetime of searching, and just Alohomora the lock."

"Brilliant!" Ron exclaimed.

Hermione raised her wand and aimed it at the door, but stopped abruptly.

"Unless, of course, _someone_ wants to interrupt my spell to vent his or her paranoid delusions about how the door is _clearly _trapped," she said to no-one in particular. Milo felt his cheeks growing hot. "Or some crackpot, circuitous theory about Dumbledore's real, _secret_ plan."

"Just open the damn door, Hermione," Milo growled. "There's no sensible reason that, if they had a charm or whatever that could stop Alohomora, they'd use it here and not on the first door. Clearly, it slipped the vaunted brain of our brilliant headmaster that Flickwick was handing out magical lockpicks to eleven-year-olds."

"Very well, if you insist. _Alohomora!_" Nothing happened. Hermione frowned. "_Alohomora!_"

"Isn't it Alo-ho-_more_-ah?" Ron teased.

"Oh, shut up, Ron. Anyone have another idea?"

"My Merlin-like powers of deduction suggest we try to find the key," said Ron. "Or, maybe Milo can use some kind of hitherto-unforseen door-opening spell?"

_I could always Fly up there_, Milo mused, _but I wouldn't even know where to begin to find the right key_— _much less actually _catch _it. Besides, I need to preserve my magic for the BBEG._

"Stands to reason we should be able to get through without resorting to that," he said. "Quirrell and Harry obviously managed to get through here, right? They only had wanded magic."

"Good name," Hermione said idly. Her forehead was creased with thought, staring up at the keys.

"Thanks. I figured some sort of differentiation was necessary. Ron, take a look around the room and see if you can find anything helpful—a clue, or maybe a piece of equipment."

"Right," he said, and started wandering around the labyrinthine room. Thick, heavy pillars broke up sightlines at irregular intervals, necessitating a manual search of the room.

"Hermione, I need you to make a Knowledge check."

"Pardon?" she asked.

"Just sit and think about the room you're in. Does anything about this ring any bells? Do flying keys appear prominently in any local lore or children's legends?"

Hermione blinked, then frowned, as if trying to remember something said in a conversation from a fortnight prior that only barely registered.

"The Flying Keys were a pair of brothers who were famous pilots decades ago," she said, "but I doubt that has any bearing here." Milo, to whom a pilot was someone who navigated a boat into or out of dangerous harbours in foul weather, was unable to fathom how they earned such a nickname. He chose, however, not to inform Hermione to this particular fact. "Other than that... no. I've got nothing. However, we can probably assume the key was made to match the lock, correct?"

"Hmm. That depends. If the builder wanted to keep us out, the key would have no obvious identifying features whatsoever, and only be determinable by, say, a custom spell. No, scratch that. If he or she _really_ wanted to keep everyone out, there wouldn't be a door. You don't build doors to keep people _out_—that's what walls are for. The door could be some sort of trick... maybe it's a con. A shell game. _None_ of the keys fit. This room was created to delay intruders until a crack team of Aurors can arrive."

"Can't be," Hermione countered. "Quirrell and Harry got through ahead of us, so there must be _some _way through. Maybe it's a test?" she suggested. "You can only pass if you can figure out the puzzle?"

"But _why_?" Milo asked. "I see two possibilities: this dungeon is either some sort of test of worthiness, or it's designed to keep anyone out who doesn't know the trick to entering. In the first case... why bother? If they wanted to give the Stone to someone worthy, Dumbledore and Flamel could just work together and pick someone, avoiding this hassle. In the second case, and it's designed for only a select group of people to enter—say, Dumbledore, Flamel, maybe McGonagall—then why have any clues at all? Everyone in the group knows the trick. Anything and everything observable in the dungeon, therefore, is designed to throw intruders off the trail to it. It's just as likely that _none_ of the keys work, and there's a secret password or lever—or a hidden door."

"My point still stands. Quirrell figured it out, remember?"

"Unless..." Milo used a dramatic pause as cover to reach into his Belt. "_Gotcha!_" he shouted, flinging a handful of garlic powder directly behind him. "Crap," he sighed.

"Let me guess," the corners of her lips twitched slightly. "You assumed he was hiding under the effects of a Disillusionment Charm, waiting for _us_ to open the door so he, being a dastardly villain, could follow us through?"

"...Maybe. But it was a perfectly reasonable guess, and if you say one word otherwise, please be reminded that _I know where you live_."

"There's one more thing we haven't considered," Hermione said slowly. "Maybe Quirrell _is_ one of this alleged group, and knows the trick?"

"I... crap." It made sense. Quirrell was the DADA Professor, after all. If they were going to build a big dungeon to keep out dark wizards in their castle, who _else_ would you ask for help? Of course Quirrell knew the way through this room.

"Blimey!" Ron shouted from across the room. "You'll never guess what I've found?"

"A secret door?" Hermione asked.

"Treasure?" Milo said at the same time.

"Neither!" Ron said. "three Comet Two-Sixties!"

"Crap. Crap. _Crap_." Milo was still unable to get a broomstick to respond to his presence _at all_, and Hermione was hardly any better. A quick glance at Hermione's face revealed she didn't relish the thought of flight any more than he did.

"And they've been slashed to pieces!" Ron added.

"Oh, thank _God_," Hermione said explosively, releasing a long-held breath.

"So, what were you two talking about? Figure out what we're supposed to do, yet?" Ron asked.

"Uh..." Milo said. "Sort of. We determined the door is trapped, and that none of the keys fit it... and that it's probably a fake and we have to beat a con man at a shell game, or... something. It got kind of complicated."

"So... I take it we're still clueless."

"Ah, screw it. _Kelgore's Fire Bolt_." An obsidian-black shard of stone glowing red with heat burst from Milo's opened palm and flew towards the door at just under the speed of sound, arcane energy crackling around it like a comet's tail. As soon as the tip of the stone touched the ancient oak door, it exploded into a searing red ball precisely five feet across, leaving their vision flecked with purple specks. The door splintered, and charred chunks of wood scattered about the room.

"Merlin's left foot!" Ron cursed, rubbing at his eyes.

Hermione stared at the door, her face a mask of abject terror.

"We are going to get in _so _much trouble," she quailed.

"Whatever. We'll do the paperwork, update our character sheets, and face the consequences of our actions later—maybe. It's the adventurer's way. In the meantime, there's a dungeon to crawl."

Ron cautiously poked a large chunk of ex-door with the remains of a Comet-Two Sixty. The solid-looking wood crumbled into ash at the gentle contact, scattering in the gentle draft created by the fluttering wings above.

"Blimey," he said almost reverently.

"Evocation is generally underpowered," Milo said, "but, on occasion, it can have its uses."

The next chamber was lit only by the glow of the room before entering through the smoldering doorway. Milo could barely make out large, towering armoured figures with a vaguely humanoid shape standing in front of him, lined up like a phalanx. He took a hesitant step forward, and the instant that his foot touched the ground in the new room, his vision flooded white. His eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the vision in front of him.

What Milo had taken to be armoured soldiers were, instead, giant black chessmen (although, as an experienced adventurer, he refused to rule out the possibility that they were _Animated)_. They were carved to resemble armoured soldiers, weapons and all – except for their faces. Some of the pieces wore helmets, but the rest had blank, expressionless smooth surfaces in their place. As someone who had never seen a mannequin before, he found the sight distinctly unnerving.

"I'm an idiot," Ron said quietly.

"Sorry, what?" Milo asked. He was missing something.

"You'll see. I'd bet my magic that we have to play our way across."

"Before jumping to any conclusions," Hermione suggested, "how about we test that? _Wingardium Leviosa_." She levitated a large chunk of door across the oversized chessboard. The black players seemed to ignore it, but as it reached the white line, a pale pawn leapt forwards at a diagonal and ran it through with his spear. Milo winced. He knew that stone weaponry took a -2 penalty to attack and damage, but, looking at the razor-sharp edges of the nearby black soldiers' gear, he doubted that applied here. The white pawn stepped back into his original position, looking no different than before save for a light dusting of ash. "Okay," Hermione admitted. "we have to play our way across."

"Fortunately," Ron said with a slightly shaky grin, "I have something of an advantage here."

"Why's that?" Milo asked, "because you happened to put maximum ranks in Profession (Chess Player)? And here I thought those were wasted."

"Just watch. Milo, do me a favour and take the place of the left bishop? That's the one with the pointy hat and mace. Hermione, take the third pawn from the right."

"But—" Milo protested.

"Just trust me."

"He _is_ the best chess player in the school, remember?" Hermione pointed out lightly. "We had that tournament and everything. Still..." she stepped into the place of the designated pawn. "This does seem awfully specific."

It suddenly struck Milo that he'd completely forgotten that 'chess' was on the Plot. Cursing himself, he reluctantly took the place of the bishop, who mutely stepped off the board to make way for him. Of _course_ chess would come up here, at the end. The sheer number of times it had been mentioned would be mind-bogglingly _pointless_ had there not been some sort of chess-related puzzle.

"What about you?" Hermione asked Ron.

"I'm the king, of course. Just do what I say, and we'll be fine. I promise."

Reluctantly, Milo and Hermione agreed.

Ron ordered one of his pawns forward, looking not _quite_ as confident as he sounded. Milo noticed a somewhat wild look to his eyes, but, after seeing the white side's response, he let out a deep breath and began to below orders at a shocking pace. He barely waited for each piece to finish moving before moving his next one. The white pieces, driven by silent orders, responded immediately to each move.

Milo was surprised, to say the least. He knew Ron was good, but this... it was as if Ron were reading off of a script, knowing in advance what he would say each turn well before he spoke. The sheer amount of information he must be processing to give commands that quickly... either Ron had been holding out on a Headband of Intellect +10, or he had _no _idea what he was doing and simply giving orders at random.

Milo swallowed nervously as it came time to act. Despite Ron's confidence, they were losing pieces. A lot of pieces. There were only two pawns, aside from Hermione, still standing on their side. They'd lost their other bishop early on to what _had_ to have been a sheer blunder — though Ron's confident, almost bored, expression never changed.

Still, Ron _was_ a better player than he had ever been. Milo walked diagonally across the board, standing uncomfortably close to a white knight. The knight completely ignored his presence, sitting atop his pale horse, long white blade in hand. While he was fully aware that the knight could only move in a weird, L-shape (suddenly, the Cleric spell _Knight's Move_ made a lot more sense to him), and that he was perfectly safe where he was standing, the sword still sent shivers down Milo's spine.

The rules of chess were clear: when a piece took another piece, the taken piece didn't have a hope of fighting back, even a mighty queen against a lowly pawn. So Milo wondered what would happen if he was hit by that sword and survived. Would the knight simply repeatedly stab him until satisfied? Or would the game carry on, ignoring his presence completely, as he bled out on the floor?

Hermione, meanwhile, was tapping her foot impatiently. She'd been almost completely ignored by Ron, only moving up to allow another piece to pass early on.

A black castle stepped up and smashed the white knight off of his horse with a heavy, flanged mace. The knight's horse dragged its rider off the board, and then there was silence.

"Check..." Ron said quietly. Then he drew a deep breath, letting it out explosively. "Mate."

The remaining white pieces (the ones that could still stand, anyway) walked to the edges of the board and bowed slightly.

"How did you _do that_?" Hermione asked, throwing her arms around him in a hug. "That was _incredible_!"

Milo was beginning to have suspicions at that point.

Ron simply shrugged, looking a little embarrassed at Hermione's outcry. "I'd played the same game before."

"You... what?" Hermione asked, stepping back from him. Several pieces clicked in Milo's head so loudly he was surprised nobody noticed.

"When I played against Quirrell, I was really playing the castle."

"He used his little tournament to find which of us were good at chess," Milo said with realization. "The wily _bastard_."

"I _knew_ chess had nothing to do with Defence!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Right. So every time _I_ made a move, he'd go down here and make the same move against the castle, then use _its_ move against me. Quirrell's likely rubbish at chess."

"But the white side's just a spell," Milo murmured. "It doesn't have any creativity of its own, just an elaborate set of premade responses. So when you made the exact same moves against it..."

"...It made the same moves against me," Ron finished. "It was the hardest game I've ever played—but I'd already done it and knew how it ended."

"You put all that together just by seeing the chess game down here?" Hermione asked. Her eyes were a little wide. Milo was having to make some revisions in his mind, as well. There might be more to Ron than he had previously thought.

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

Author's Notes: When I came up with the chess trick Quirrell played on the party, I was _so_ proud of myself. I went around congratulating myself all _day_ for my own cleverness and ingenuity. Within five minutes of posting the chess chapter, however, a reader PM'd me, guessing _exactly_ what had happened. I suppose some metagamers out there flagged any mention of 'chess' as suspicious, considering the dungeon crawl at the end.

Now I'm curious. Was Quirrell's trick _really_ brilliant, or was it transparent? Leave a review saying if you'd called it in advance or were caught by surprise.


	31. Chapter 30: Troll Wanted: Dead or Alive

Milo opened the door a crack and peeked through. The room was pitch dark, but his sense of smell confirmed his suspicions.

_Crap_.

He, ever so quietly, closed the door and looked back at his companions.

"Right," he whispered. "So, there's a Troll on the other side of this door."

His companions stared at him blankly for a few seconds, then cursed sulfurously.

"The same one as before?" Ron asked after venting for a moment. "If we're lucky, it'll be so scared of Hermione here that it'll lie down and play dead when we enter."

"Could be," Milo said, "But I wouldn't count our lives on that. Frankly... I'm not sure we can take him." The last encounter he had had with a Troll had proved definitely, dreadfully, defenestratively disastrous. He looked at his comrades, whose faces were ashen. They'd thrown everything they'd had at it, and it had still gotten away. Hermione and he had been seriously injured.

"Wait!" Ron said, his face brightening suddenly. "Milo can just blast it like he did that door!"

"Yeah..." Milo said, "about that. That was kind of a one-off. Sorry, guys. What else have we got?" Maybe they should have tried to solve the last puzzle after all—the fickle being that ran the universe appeared to be punishing him for his brute force approach.

"If we had a large quantity of dust, I suppose I could use _Ventus_ again," Hermione mused. "But even that didn't finish off the last one."

"How about a Hippogriff?" Ron suggested. "Like back at the Duelling Club. That Hufflepuff was in the hospital wing for three days—mind, I reckon he was just trying to skive classes."

"Didn't prepare Summon Monster," Milo admitted, "but I have something that's _almost_ as good for this. I only give it even odds of winning, though, so I suggest we run past it while it's distracted. Sound good?"

"Not particularly," Hermione confessed, "But I don't see that we have any other option."

"Great. This spell takes six seconds to cast, so open the door for me at the count of five, okay?" Ron nodded, and moved to stand by the heavy, iron-studded wooden door. Milo rolled up his sleeves, adjusted his Arcanist's Gloves slightly, and began casting. Ron swallowed nervously, his hand on the doorknob.

"_Summon Skeletal Troll!_" The door flew open, and a towering nightmare of a figure appeared before them. Without pausing to look closer, Milo and the others bolted through the door, an almost-physical wall of putrid stench assaulting their noses. In the darkness, he heard someone gag, but kept running until he hit the far wall. Undead had Darkvision out to 60 feet, so Milo wasn't worried about his summoned monster. If anything, the undead Troll likely had the advantage over the living one in this lighting. Milo felt around at the wall that he was touching, searching for an exit.

Then he encountered a problem.

"Where in the Infinite Layers of the Abyss is the thrice-damned door?" he hissed quietly. It was so dark that he could barely see the blue-and-gold of his own gloves.

"_Lumos_," Ron cast, and his wand glowed, clearly illuminating the door—and them.

"_No!_" Hermione shrieked, staring at the lit wand. She covered her mouth in horror, looking around nervously for the Troll. Milo prepared to launch a salvo of magic at the Troll that he was sure was about to fall on them like a landslide.

Nevertheless, nothing happened.

"I thought you said there was a Troll," Hermione whispered accusingly.

"I _smelled _a Troll," Milo said. "I just assumed there was one, too. I mean, it makes sense, right? This dungeon was probably made by the top Hogwarts teachers, each one making a single room—Professor Sprout did the Devil's Snare, probably—and Quirrell has this whole _Troll_ thing going on, so I figured—"

"Found him," Ron said, the light of his wand revealing the unmistakable cadaver of an ex-Troll. "Big ol' bugger's dead already. Ruddy convenient, that is."

"Perhaps Quirrell killed him on the way in?" Hermione suggested. Milo shrugged, dismissing his skeleton with a casual wave.

"Looks like."

The next room simply had a large table with seven mismatched bottles arranged on a thick tablecloth. As soon as they entered the room, purple flames appeared behind them, blocking their escape. Black flames guarded the door on the other side of the room.

"Bugger," Ron muttered. "This has 'Snape' written all over it. We should have brought shampoo; any fire made by that git would probably bugger off in fright after one whiff of it."

"Look!" Hermione pointed at a small roll of parchment on the table. "_Wingardium Leviosa_." The roll floated over to her.

"Why not just pick it up?" Milo asked.

"All this talks of traps must be making me paranoid," Hermione confessed. "I felt I couldn't be too careful—especially if _Professor_ Snape" (she shot a look at Ron) "had anything to do with it."

"You're learning, young grasshopper," Milo said sagely.

"I'm actually older than you are," Hermione pointed out. "I'm twelve, after all. You're only eleven."

"Ish," Milo corrected. "Eleven-ish. Birth date still unknown. Anyways, what's on the paper?"

"It's a puzzle!" she said, a smile growing on her face. "One of the potions will let us through, I just need to figure out which. It's brilliant—a lot of wizards haven't got an ounce of logic, they'd be stuck in here forever."

"You don't say?" Milo asked. So wanded magic _wasn't_ Intelligence-based after all. _Interesting_. _Very _interesting.

"The only catch is, three of the bottles are poison—the rest are wine, except for one that lets the drinker go back, of course—so it's important I figure out which is which. Now just give me a second. Let's see..." Hermione looked at each bottle closely, and re-read the parchment several times. "I've got it!"

"We drink from the little one," Ron said.

"—we drink the smallest one!" Hermione finished. "Oh. How did you figure?"

"Quirrell must have drunk one when he went through earlier," Ron said. "Harry too, for that matter. The small one is clean and the others have all got dust on."

"...I see."

"But don't worry about it—a lot of the greatest wizards couldn't notice what's right under their noses, either," Ron said teasingly.

_Interesting. It's not Wisdom-based, either. Could it be..._ (Milo shuddered at the thought) ..._Charisma?_ It would explain why Grabbe and Coyle were failing most of their courses, and why Voldemort was simultaneously the greatest dark wizard alive (_or possibly undead, _Milo thought, fingering a wooden stake in his belt) _and _had an impressive cult following. Dumbledore, too, for that matter (except for the 'dark' part). Fortunately, PCs were explicitly immune to the effects of high-powered Diplomancy.

"We... have a slight problem," Hermione said in a small voice.

"Oh?"

"There's only enough for one of us," she said. "Hardly even that." She was right—the bottle was _tiny_.

Tiny... but full.

"The potion must replenish itself," Milo pointed out. "Assuming Quirrell and Harry came through here—and everything we've seen suggests that they have—they _both_ had to have drunk from that bottle, which is nevertheless full to the cork. So all we have to do is go through one at a time. The only question is..."

"Which order do we go in?" Hermione asked.

"I was going to say, 'how long does it take to refill,' but yours is valid. The only _two_ questions are: which order do we go in, and how long does it take to refill?"

"That, and 'what's on the other side, and does it want to eat our faces,'" Ron added.

"Right. Our _three_ questions are: which order do we go in, how long does it take to refill, and what's on the other side, and does it want to eat our faces? Oh, and, how about, 'did Hermione pick the right bottle, or will the first drinker turn blue and die?' So our _four_ questions are: which order, how long, what's on the other side—"

"—and does it want to eat our faces off—" cut in Ron.

"—Right, and does it want to eat our faces off, and did Hermione pick the right bottle."

"Wait," Hermione said. "Didn't you say your robes made you fire proof? You had me set you on fire and everything."

"Fire _resistant_," Milo corrected in a pained voice. "And it's only rated against _regular _fire. Against fancy black fire? It depends: how much does the DM hate me? The answer? Probably a _lot_." Milo could still remember the disastrous 'Use Spontaneous Divination to get Cleric Spells' fiasco.

"DM?" Ron asked in a puzzled voice.

"Disgruntled Mechanics. If you push the rules... sometimes, the rules push back."

"O-kay. Let's pretend I never asked, and I'll pretend you're not completely daft."

"Fair enough. How about you two play Fighter, Rogue, Wide-Mouth-Spiked-Pit-Trap to determine which of you goes first, and I'll chance the fire. The other one waits for the potion to refill and charges in to save us from whatever horrific fate we've found ourselves in. I'm thinking the giant squid that lives in the lake will figure in here somehow."

"I hesitate to ask, but... Fighter, Rogue, Wide-Mouth-Spiked-Pit-Trap?" Hermione asked.

"Sure. The Fighter Power Attacks the Rogue for quintuple the Rogue's HP, the Rogue uses Trap Sense and discovers and disarms the Wide-Mouth-Spiked-Pit-Trap, the Fighter has no skill ranks or good abilities other than Strength and Constitution and falls into the Wide-Mouth-Spiked-Pit-Trap. It's abstract, I know—for example, it assumes the theoretically possible but, in practice, impossible event of a Fighter engaging a competent Rogue in a fair combat—but really, when it comes down to it, it's just common sense."

"Oh, so just like Rock, Paper, Scissors, then," Hermione said.

"What is this Rock, Paper, Scissors of which you speak?"

"Well, rock bends the scissors, the scissors cut the paper, and the paper... well, I guess it wraps around the rock," Ron explained.

"I'd always assumed the paper was too flexible to be beaten by the rock," Hermione said. "Which is why it 'wins.'"

"Psht," Milo muttered. "The paper is probably a scroll of _Rock to Mud_. It's the only explanation that makes any sense."

"Regardless," Hermione cut in, "let's play, shall we? Milo, count us off."

"Three... Two... One..."

"Paper!" Hermione said, at the same time that Ron said "Wide-Mouth-Spiked-Pit-Trap!"

"Hooboy..." Milo muttered.

Eventually, Ron won out with rock ("I assumed you'd think I was the sort of person who _always_ chose rock, so while I was going to trick you by choosing scissors, I realized, you might have _guessed_ that I'd use my cunning ploy and that what I should _really_ be using is paper, but then I remembered your scores in History of Magic so, taking into account the fact that you were a brainiac, I _one-upped you again_, which put me right back to rock. Bloody brilliant, I say.") against Hermione's scissors ("I assigned each move a number—paper was one, rock was two, scissors was three—and divided the third line of Snape's riddle by three, because three there are three of us (if it came out to four, it would wrap around and would count as 'paper,' of course, and five would be rock) to simulate a random move, which would thus be impossible to guess.")

"Ha!" Ron exclaimed. "I win! Who's clever _now_?"

"You were _lucky_," Hermione stressed. "There's a difference. Just because you were right doesn't mean it was the smart decision."

"Right," Milo said. "Drink up, and let's go rescue Harry."

Ron's grin vanished immediately.

"Ah, bugger. I forgot the prize was 'almost-certain grievous injury, with a side of dismemberment.' I should have lost."

"Who's clever _now_," Hermione muttered under her breath. Milo didn't think that he was supposed to hear it.

Milo walked over to the flickering black fire, feeling the heat rolling off of it. This was, oddly, reassuring—it was a weak implication that the fire did, well, Fire damage as opposed to something eviller, like Cold or Negative Energy. Or (Milo shuddered at the possibility) Level Drain. All things being equal, death was generally preferable to level loss. At least _it_ was only a _temporary _inconvenience.

Beside him, Ron chugged the tiny bottle and shivered.

"It's like drinking ice water," he said, and passed the empty bottle to Hermione.

"I'll follow as soon as it refills," she promised. "Be careful, will you? If your theory is right, and each of the Heads of Houses and Quirrell made a room... well, this was the last one. Good luck." She looked like she wanted to say more, but decided against it and stepped back.

"Best take it at a run, you think?" Ron suggested.

"Agreed. Ready?" Milo asked, backing up a bit so he could Run through the fire.

"Ready."

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

Author's Notes: When organizing a D&D game, make sure to tell everyone to be there half an hour early. That way, you can get the obligatory incessant _Monty Python_ quoting out of the way and still pick the lock on the ten-by-ten room containing an orc guarding a chest without running overtime. At _least_ half an hour. Maybe an hour. A good hour.

The way I picture it, in Milo's universe, this behaviour results in PCs reflexively referencing _Monty Python_ (and _the Princess Bride_, _Lord of the Rings_, etc.) without really understanding why. Milo is cut off from his Player, but the behaviour is deeply ingrained in him nonetheless.


	32. Chapter 31: The Man With Two Faces

Author's Notes: For added realism, I rolled every die for this chapter.

o—o—o—o

"T-try harder! L-l-look at the M-Mirror and th-think about the g-g-_good_ and h-h-_healing_ you c-c-could do with it! Your f-f-friend is c-counting on y-you!"

"I'm _trying_, Professor! I can see myself using the Stone to cure Milo, but nothing else is happening! Are you sure this is how it works?"

Milo landed with a roll on the far side of the fire, feeling his hit points drop by one. Just his luck that the fire—which turned out to be rather ordinary, after all—rolled a six for damage. Smooth darkwood in his left hand, right hand ready for casting, Milo quickly took stock of the room in the way that only an Adventurer could. Fine details were simultaneously ignored and calculated for gold piece value, plot-relevant details were filed away for future reference, and threats were evaluated immediately.

The sum value of all unattended items in the stark room was a paltry 37gp, 4sp, and 7cp—not counting a rather familiar mirror that he deliberately avoided looking straight at. Standing in front of the Mirror of Erised was a surprised looking Harry, who was staring at the newcomers in astonishment.

In a flash, Quirrell had his wand out and was standing directly behind the still-amazed Harry.

_Not good_, Milo thought. Quirrell could kill all three of them before Milo could get a single spell off, most likely. _Best get him talking. _Every _villain worth his black robes and skull necklace likes to monologue._

"So, you've been trying to get at the Stone this whole time, have you?" Milo asked. "I asked around. You've been teaching Muggle Studies at Hogwarts for four years before you got the Defence job. Were you just waiting, gaining the trust of everyone around you?" The specific words were unimportant to his plan — all that mattered was that he got Quirrell talking.

"Y-you _fool!_" Good start. When they start calling people fools, it generally means they're working their way up to a _magnificent_ rant. "You th-think you have any _inkling_ of m-my plan?"

"Well..." It was all Milo could do not to smile. "Since you're going to kill us anyways... could you at least tell me what the deal was with the Acromantula in the Forbidden Forest back in the fall?" Milo had been _dying_ to figure out what that was all about. Harry stood with his hands up, Quirrell's wand pointed at his temples.

"You were s-s-supposed to die!" Quirrell said. "You knew t-too much! You even t-t-told me—said it was _obvious_ to anyone with a brain—that you, your f-f-friends, and D-D-Dumbledore had f-f-figured it out! So kind of you t-to b-bring them h-here, b-by the way. Everyone except that G-G-Granger g-girl, anyway." Milo blinked. Figured _what_ out? He could barely remember that conversation having taken place, much less the subject matter. "S-so I l-l-let that h-halfbreed oaf f-find out I w-was k-k-killing the unicorns in the f-f-forest to g-get you out in the f-f-forest alone. It w-was p-p-perfect... the spider would k-kill you and m-make it l-l-look like an accident. V-very t-tragic, I'd s-say... what a p-_promising_ student you were..."

_Quirrell _was killing the unicorns? _And now he's trying to get the Stone..._ What was it Milo had said? That there were likely followers of Voldemort out there, each competing to bring their master back? So... Quirrell wasn't _just_ trying to get the Stone for himself. He was a Death Eater as well.

"...But you didn't count on me to kill it?" Milo asked. Except he _hadn't_ killed it. Investigation had shown that the injuries he'd dealt it weren't nearly severe enough to finish the monster off. Everything pointed to a Killing Curse.

"You think _you_ k-k-killed it? _Fool!_ It was m-me!" Quirrell hesitated for a second. "I'd s-sworn n-n-never to mention this again, b-but... s-seeing as how I'm g-g-going to k-kill you anyways..." Milo couldn't help himself; he leaned in a little closer. "I t-tripped." Quirrell paused, and Milo heard Ron fighting down a laugh. "I w-was watching, under the c-cloak of a Disillusionment s-spell, w-when I s-slipped. The g-g-ground was unnaturally s-slippery" Milo grinned, despite himself. He'd cast a _Grease_ spell, but hadn't imagined that he'd managed to get the _end boss_ with it. "And the A-Acromantula h-heard me. I h-had n-no choice b-but to abort the p-plan, k-kill the spider, and Obliviate y-you."

"But you had _plenty_ of opportunities to try again," Milo pointed out. "Why didn't... Oh. I see. After I told you how my magic works, you realized that _I_ could be used to revive Volde— "

"_D-don't s-speak his n-name_!" Quirrell shouted.

"You-Know-Who, then. So, you changed gears... the Duelling Club. The Vampires. They weren't to kill me, they were to get me XP." That was so backwards, it almost hurt Milo's head. "You _wanted_ me to level up, to turn me into a Philosopher's Stone!"

"It w-was one p-plan of m-many," Quirrell shrugged, though Milo noticed his wand remained pointed directly at Harry's head. "It n-never h-hurts to m-make... backups."

"So..." Milo could practically hear the gears whirring inside his head. It was like a scaled-down Mechanus in there. "You're also the one who possessed Hannah and me, I take it?" He asked in a deceptively cool voice.

"I—"

"For a Death Eater, you seem awfully afraid of your own master. You flinch every time anyone says _Voldemort_."

"You think _I_ am a _D-Death Eater_?" Quirrell said incredulously. "You h-haven't realized _anything_ yet!"

"One follower of Voldy is much like another," Milo shrugged. "I don't know, and, frankly, don't care if you have some sort of internal naming scheme or hierarchy. You're all just XP waiting to be collected, when it comes down to it." While Milo was speaking, Quirrell reached up with his off-hand and began unwrapping his turban. Milo was unconcerned—it wasn't until the Professor's wand hand began moving that he had anything to worry about. At worst, he was trying to activate some sort of magic item, and from what Milo had seen, the local magic items were mainly to aid in household activities. At worst, all potatoes in a sixty-foot radius would magically peel themselves.

"I am s-so much m-more than a m-mere D-Death Eater," Quirrell sneered, the turban falling to the floor. Harry cried out in pain suddenly, his hand going to his forehead. It came away bloody. "I am the a-avatar of the D-Dark L-Lord h-himself!"

A horrible, hissing voice that seemed to come from Quirrell—though his mouth never moved—spoke suddenly.

"_Kill the newcomers... we only need the boy..._"

Quirrell's wand came up, but Milo was faster.

"_Nerveskitter_," Milo said in harmony with himself as time bended around him, speeding his reflexes up slightly. Though a minor difference, all things considered, it was enough. "So, you're Lord Voldemort, eh?" Milo's raised his right hand, palm outspread and ready to cast. "They say you once murdered an entire family of Muggles. The _entire_ family—cousins, cousins-in-law, grandparents, nieces, nephews. Everyone bearing the same surname. They say you did it just because a twenty-year-old and his new wife had a witch—a _mudblood_—for a daughter. They say you're more demon than man, that you sold your soul for dark powers. Some say you never had a soul to begin with. They say that merely saying your name aloud is enough to call your attention." Milo stared at the man standing in front of him, the man he had once trusted. Maybe he really _was_ part demon, but templates came at the cost of all-important caster levels. "But, you know? People say a lot of foolish things. Once, I heard a Bard reason that, since wearing heavy armour reduced his Hide bonus, going absolutely naked would render him invisible." To an outside observer, it would seem remarkable that Voldemort would wait for Milo to continue before completing his spell. However, said outside observer was likely unaware that talking is a Free Action, and Milo could have recited _The Raven_ in its entirety before allowing anyone else to act. "Really, when it comes down to it, your vaunted 'Dark Magic' is about as useful as a Fallen Paladin without your wand," Milo said. "It would be a shame if it were to, unexpectedly, say... _Shatter_."

A noise like an elder wyrm roaring echoed through the room, and Quirrell's alder wand exploded into splinters. Harry, taking advantage of the confusion, dashed away from the Mirror to join Ron and Milo.

"W-w-well," Quirrell stammered. Something felt wrong. _Very_ wrong. "It w-would appear that I h-have b-been beaten..."

Milo blinked, then realized what it was: he hadn't got any XP. _Quirrell wasn't defeated_.

Then he remembered what happened after the _first_ time he'd seen the Mirror of Erised...

_Twelve sapient creatures. Quirrell counts as two, leaving ten unaccounted for._

"_Glitterdust_!" Milo cast the spell, not at Quirrell, but directly to his right. Milo's primary usage of the spell was generally to blind everyone in the area, but this time, he wanted it for its _other_ purpose: revealing invisible creatures. Sparkly arcane doom rained down, revealing five small, heavily armed creatures that Milo was all-too familiar with...

...Redcaps.

Invisible Redcaps.

_Crap_.

The golden particles outlined the invisible creatures, each carrying a heavy sword like the one in the Forbidden Forest had. Milo guessed—though he doubted he could push Quirrell into another rant to confirm it—that that one had been sent by the Professor—no, by _Voldemort_—as part of his 'Level-Grind the PC plan.'

"The outlined ones will only be visible for 42 seconds!" Milo shouted to Ron and Harry. "Stun as many as you can—I'll deal with the _other_ five!"

"Right!" Ron said. "Stun them with what, exactly?"

"I don't know! Stupefy or something!"

"But that's fourth-year—"

"JUST FIGURE SOMETHING OUT!" Three of the five glowing Redcaps had been blinded by the golden light, but the other two were advancing rapidly towards them. Milo could only guess what the other five were up to, but, fortunately, _this_ was the fight he was made for. Enough of that one-on-one insanity. Battlefield control was a Conjurer's specialty.

"_Web!_" Thick, sticky webs appeared in the area that Milo guessed the still-invisible Redcaps were standing. The beauty of the _Web _spell is that even if the targets manage to make their Reflex saves, it doesn't really help them all that much. They still get a host of penalties, and requires an _extremely_ difficult Strength check to move at all—and even then, extremely slowly. That, and at Milo's level, it lasts for over an hour. It is generally considered the pinnacle of the Conjuration school—and on top of all of that it's only a _Second Level_ spell.

Milo could hear screams of frustration from the trapped Redcaps—but that was no guarantee that he'd caught all five.

"Can you smell any others?" Milo asked his familiar. Rats have a keen sense of smell, which is one of the reasons that he had picked Mordy as his companion. Mordy sniffed the air for a second, then nodded.

"Eleven o'clock, 20 feet. One straggler."

"_Grease_." The thud and metal-on-stone clatter confirmed the hit. _Grease_ would only delay the Redcap, not trap it entirely like _Web_ had. Milo glanced around to see how his companions were faring.

"_Expelliarmus!_" Harry shouted, and one of the Redcaps' sword went flying behind him.

"_Wingardium Leviosa!_" Ron cast immediately afterwards, catching the sword in midair and lifting it up over another's head, dropping (hilt-first) from five feet up. The Redcap moved to dodge, but was too slow and went down like a Sorcerer hit by a Greatclub. With one Redcap disarmed, another unconscious, and the other three still blind, there didn't seem to be any immediate threats, but Milo doubted that would last.

"_Mirror Image_," he cast, and six doppelgangers appeared around him. The unarmed Redcap didn't seem to know when it was beaten, and lunged at Ron, his golden hands clenching around the redheaded boy's throat.

"Crap!" Milo was out of attack spells except for _Acid Splash_, and he didn't even _want_ to know what kinds of penalties could be incurred by shooting into a Grapple. He started running through a list of Divinations he could cast spontaneously that might be helpful, but Harry was faster.

"_Expelliarmus!_" Ron went flying out of the Redcap's hands. _Brilliant_, Milo thought. _Expelliarmus knocks away _whatever_ the target his holding, not just wands_. Harry was already starting to think like a Munchkin; Milo would never admit it, but he felt somewhat proud of his party member. _Glitterdust_ didn't provide enough detail for Milo to be sure, but he imagined a look of dumbfounded astonishment on the ugly Fey's face.

It was then that Milo had an Idea.

"Hey _ugly!_" Milo shouted at the unarmed Redcap. "Worried about your lack of weapon? A _real_ Redcap doesn't need one—after all, I killed your buddy _unarmed_ back in the Forbidden Forest." Milo couldn't tell if the Fey understood a word he said, but it lunged at him nevertheless. The darkwood staff whirled, and smashed into the creature's temple with as much force as Milo could manage (so, not a lot, when it comes down to it). The creature recovered, and attempted futilely to punch Milo through the protection of his Robe of Arcane Might. The bony fist slid off of the magically-augmented uniform and Milo attacked again.

Milo's bet paid off. He'd gambled that the Redcap hadn't taken the Improved Unarmed Strike feat—Hells, _nobody_ takes Improved Unarmed Strike—and, therefore, would give Milo a free attack every time he tried to do the same. Despite Milo's slender build and lousy BAB, with a pair of attacks for every punch from the Redcap—combined with his high AC and miss chance from Mirror Image—the Fey didn't stand a chance.

As the Redcap fell to Milo's sixth blow, Mordy spoke again.

"Alert! Enemy approaching at six o'clock!"

_Gods damnit!_ Milo thought, whirling around. _It must be the one that I _Greased. He'd completely forgotten about it when he'd gone in to play Big Stupid Fighter with the other one.

One of Milo's doubles flickered and vanished as, presumably, the invisible Redcap slashed at it with his wickedly curved sword. Ron and Harry each cast a Disarming Charm, but, without knowing exactly where the Redcap stood, they went wide. This was becoming _far_ too hairy for a Wizard as squishy as he. For a second, Milo considered using _Fly_ to reach the safety of the ceiling, but realized that that would leave Harry and Ron—who lacked his (by this world's standards) preternatural healing abilities and resilience—vulnerable. Instead, Milo decided that he'd be better to leave the battle in the hands of a specialist.

"_Summon Skele_—" halfway through the spell, the Redcap swung again, this time guessing the correct target. Milo tried to dodge, but only succeeded in mitigating the attack somewhat. The sword penetrated the spell-enhanced robes and drew a thick red line along Milo's chest, inflicting a hefty ten damage. He screamed in pain, and, falling to his knees, his concentration shattered.

The spell failed.

Milo spat blood and looked around the room hazily. Harry and Ron were still futilely shooting Disarming Charms around the room, trying to catch the invisible Redcap. Quirrell was standing by the Mirror counting silently, of all things. Milo narrowed his eyes, and realized what was happening.

_Thirty-Nine... Forty... Forty-One..._

"Forty-Two," Milo breathed, terror rising. The magic sustaining the golden particles surrounding the five Redcaps vanished, and they vanished. Two were unconscious, but the other three...

Normally, Milo would simply spontaneously cast _See Invisibility_ and _Fly_, then proceed to rain blows upon the Redcaps' heads from above. However, despite having only two hit points left, he was still the best-defended of his group. Further, from what Milo had noticed, the Disillusionment Charm didn't make the wearer _technically_ invisible, merely extremely well-concealed. As such, _See Invisibility _would be useless.

It was then that Milo noticed a glimmer of movement near the black fire of the doorway. This was unusual, as the Redcaps were all invisible, and both Ron and Harry were nowhere nearby...

"_Incendio_," he heard a feminine whisper. A barely-noticeable jet of bluebell fire, the same hue as what had been used against the Devil's Snare, hit a distant corner of Milo's _Web_.

Of course. Hermione. She was creeping along the side of the room near the door, with the _Web_ spell between her and most of the Redcaps—and Quirrell—blocking vision.

"_Duck_!" Milo shouted. Harry and Ron, too surprised to do anything but comply, hit the ground immediately. The webs began to burn quickly—magical webs, unlike mundane webs, are highly inflammable. As the violet-blue flames spread throughout the faux-spidersilk, Milo heard Hermione's voice again.

"_VENTUS!"_ A colossal gust of searing-hot air slammed into Milo bodily, knocking him onto his back. This was shortly followed by a raging-hot bluebell inferno as strands of inexplicably-inflammable webs were sucked up by the whirlwind and, suddenly oxygenated, exploded into fire. "_Ventus! Ventus! Ventus!_" Hermione, through clever use of controlled bursts of air, managed to direct the flame to a certain extent, causing it to avoid Harry and Ron. Milo's magic robes protected him (and Mordy, with Improved Evasion, had little to worry about), but the Redcaps had no such luck. As the fires began to die out, Hermione threw both glass bottles of wine from the potions riddle into the middle of it, the alcohol spilling out as the containers shattered. Redcaps screamed in agony as their clothes and hair burned in the suddenly refuelled inferno.

"Merlin's _beard_," Ron breathed as the fires died down. Invisible burning figures were sprinting around the room, trying to put out themselves out. One by one they began to drop.

Milo did some rapid counting.

"She only got five!" he shouted. "There's three more still conscious!"

Ron whirled as he heard the sudden cracking of broken glass behind him caused by the heavy bronze-studded boots the Redcaps favoured crushing the remains of a bottle.

"_Expelli_—Argh!" Ron went down as the Fey clubbed him over the head with, fortunately, the hilt of his invisible sword.

"You _fools_ thought y-you c-could d-defeat _us_?" Quirrell laughed. There was something in his voice—Milo cursed his low Sense Motive bonus yet again—that seemed a little... _off_. Like he wasn't quite sincere, maybe. "We are—"

Frankly, Milo didn't give a damn what Quirrell was going to say. "_Fly_," he muttered, ripping the Amulet of Protection from Evil from around his neck. Behind him, he saw Hermione spin in surprise and start casting something, but the wand was knocked from her hand by an unseen attacker. She started to back up, but was pushed to the ground, struggling.

"_WAAAAAAAGH!_" Milo roared and flew towards Quirrell, knocking the Professor from his feet _into_ the Mirror of Erised, which was made of sterner stuff than it looked. The man-sized mirror fell to the ground with a crash, and Milo and Quirrell came tumbling down on top of it. As they struggled, Milo noticed with revulsion that there was _another face _on Quirrell's head, normally hidden by his turban. A face with snakelike eyes and slits for a nose...

_Mind on the task_, he reminded himself, trying to pin Quirrell to the ground. This next task would take all of his mental ability and concentration: Grappling. First an Attack of Opportunity—which Quirrell was denied, being caught Flat-Footed by Milo's sudden attack (though Milo was fairly sure that the local wizards hadn't ever heard of AoO's, anyways). Then... what was it? A touch attack? Milo clumsily grabbed the downed wizard, an easy task—Quirrell was unarmoured and not particularly agile, while Milo had his (again, by the low standards of his competition) superior melee talents, augmented by the +2 bonus for charging. Then (Milo wracked his brain to try to remember the ridiculously complicated rules) there was, what, an opposed Grapple check? He struggled to wrap the Amulet around Quirrell's neck as the fully-grown man resisted with vastly superior strength and size, albeit inferior skill.

"Ha!" Milo gasped. "I got a 16!" His fingers struggled to work the clasp on the steel chain (the clasp which was _specifically_ designed to be difficult to do and undo) and almost felt it click into place when Quirrell threw him off. Milo landed in a heap, astonished, as Quirrell calmly climbed to his feet.

Quirrell was holding his wand. Milo blinked, trying to process the image in front of him.

Quirrell—no, _Voldemort_— was _holding his wand_. Thirteen inches, chestnut wood, dragon heartstring core...

"...Good for curses," Quirrell murmured to himself, testing the wand.

"Pelor above and Nerull below," Milo cursed. Trying to use the amulet to cut Voldemort's influence on Quirrell was Milo's last plan...

Well, his second-last plan.

"_True Strike_," he muttered reaching into his extra-dimensional belt for his knife. He'd avoided this—horrific memories of his last use of the dagger flooded into his mind—but now, he had no choice. Milo threw the masterwork, cold iron dagger in an overhand arc, aimed right for Quirrell's throat.

The image of Hannah's crumpled body entered his mind's eye, but he dismissed it. It had been _Voldemort's_ fault that Hannah had been possessed, _Voldemort's_ fault that Milo had almost killed her with this very dagger, and _Voldemort's_ fault that Milo was in this position once again. Dice rolled in Milo's head as he channelled all of his rage and anguish into this final, desperate throw. _Twenty_. Milo marvelled; even the DM seemed to be with him for once. Quirrell, and therefore Voldemort, suffered from the same weakness that Hannah had: a remarkably frail physical body. He wouldn't stand a chance.

The dagger spun gracefully in the air once, twice, thrice, guided by the unseen force of the famed True Strike spell.

Quirrell's wand arm shot upwards without even looking.

"_No_," the horrible face on the back of Quirrell's head murmured, and the dagger stopped in midair halfway between Milo and his target. It hovered there for a moment, then crumpled and fell.

"No..." Milo whispered weakly, his voice barely carrying to his own ears. "That's not fair... I call shenanigans..." Still, he wasn't done yet. He still had two hit points, an active _Fly_ spell, and a belt full of tricks. _Quaal, don't fail me now_. All Milo had to do was fly over to Quirrell, drop the feather, and watch as the purple-clad Professor was crushed between the ceiling and a rapidly growing oak tree. He grabbed the feather-shaped token in his gloved hand and launched himself into the air, aiming for the space over the Defence Professor's head.

"_Petrificus Totalus_," Quirrell muttered.

Milo fell like a stone, landing painfully next to Harry, who, like Hermione, had been pinned by invisible hands.

Quirrell turned to face them—that is, he looked directly _away_ from Harry, Milo, and Hermione, treating them with a full view of the horror on the back of his head—and began casting with game-breaking speed, Milo's amulet still clutched in his left hand.

"Petrificus Totalus, Petrificus Totalus," Harry and Hermione suddenly stopped fighting against their invisible attackers. "Finite Incantatem," all ten Redcaps—five of them critically injured from burns, two unconscious, two grappling Hermione and one grappling Harry—suddenly became visible. They looked around in surprise, clearly not counting on this unexpected turn of events. Then they began to die.

"Avada Kedavra, Avada Kedavra, Avada Kedavra..." One by one, Quirrell—Voldemort—methodically shot and killed the Fey, all the while his expression remaining neutral, almost bored. "_Horrible creatures_," the voice said in a strained, snakelike hiss. "_Still, not _quite _as useless as _some_ of the... servants... I have had to... deal with... recently..._" Milo was unsure if the weird pauses in his dialogue were a dramatic affectation, or a result of his unnatural half-life. "_Disappointingly, I have... guessed incorrectly... about the nature of this Mirror..._" Voldemort waved his wand lazily, and the Mirror of Erised turned to dust, scattering about the room. "_It being a puzzle created by that... sentimental fool... I assumed one such as _him," Quirrell glanced at Harry, and for once the glimmer of emotion was visible in his snakelike eyes. In all, Milo was happier _before_ knowing what the Dark Lord looked like when filled with barely controllable rage. "_would be able to crack it... some sort of frame of mind, perhaps benevolence... or a desire to do good... Alas... but fortune... favours me again..._" Voldemort paused to gasp for air. Milo wondered, briefly, how the _internals_, so to speak, of Quirrell and Voldemort's setup worked—where the esophagus went, and such—before deciding he didn't want to know. "_It... seems that my... so-called downfall... has been delivered directly into my hands..._" The tips of Voldemort's mouth bent upwards into a horrific semblance of a grin, and Milo decided that he preferred wrath to pleasure on that horrific face. "_Blood of the enemy..._" he murmured, though Milo wasn't sure what he meant by that. _"Oh, and... _Crucio." Harry screamed, straining against the bonds of his Full-Body-Bind curse. His scar started bleeding as his body was wracked with the worst pain magic could produce. Milo had once been the target of a _Power Word: Pain_ spell, but this looked _significantly_ worse.

"_And now... young Milo... I no longer have need... of your... specialized abilities... _Avada Keda—"

_Click_. As soon as Voldemort started casting with his right hand, Quirrell's _left_ hand reached around his neck and snapped the Amulet of Protection from Evil into place. There was a brief moment of silence, and then Voldemort—or Quirrel—collapsed to the ground. The magical bonds trapping Milo and the others vanished.

"Did..." Harry said. "Did Voldemort just finish himself off?" Hermione, meanwhile, rushed over to check on Ron, who was blearily regaining consciousness.

"Bit anticlimactic, if you ask me," Milo said. "Still, could be some sort of trick..."

"Yeah," Harry said, climbing to his feet shakily. "Trick us into thinking that he's tricking us into thinking he's dead by offing himself. Brilliant, that is. Well, we saw through his cunning ploy. Go team."

"_Mage Hand_." Milo floated his wand away from Quirrell, then quickly drew his 11-foot pole (sometimes, you just need that extra foot) and prodded the body gently. There was no response. "Huh. Well, looks like we got him. Time to loot the corpses." His companions looked at him, a mix of shock and revulsion on his faces, as he patted down the Redcaps for loose change. Not finding any, he settled for pocketing their swords in his Belt of Hidden Pouches, and proceeded to the _real _prize: the boss.

"I think this went rather well," Milo said happily, walking over to Quirrell. "We stopped the Philosopher's Stone from being stolen, defeated the Dark Lord Voldemort once and for all—sort of? Maybe?—rescued the princess," (Milo nodded at Harry, ignoring his 'Hey!') "and we don't even need to shell out for a single _True Resurrection_. Not bad, all things considered. All that remains is to divvy up the loot—_Holycraphe'sbreathing_!"

Quirrell, it appeared, was merely unconscious—but of the face on the back of his head, there was no sign, merely a normal (but shaved) scalp. Milo reached for the amulet around Quirrell's neck, but decided against it. For all he knew, it was the only thing keeping Voldemort at bay. Still, he patted down Quirrell's pockets nevertheless. Not much, really, when it came down to it—just a few sickles, some garlic, a holy symbol... and a tattered old book.

"_Hello_!" Milo exclaimed, turning over the shabby, leather-bound diary. There was a faded date on the cover (Milo did some arithmetic and figured it was just over fifty years old). "What have we here? Book of evil plans? Tome of Clear Thought? Book of spells? Let's find out... _Scholar's Touch_." Milo paused for a second while the spell read the book in its entirety. "...Huh. It's empty. That's... unexpected. As far as treasure goes, this kind of sucks." Behind him, Ron blearily stood up.

"Maybe it really _is_ just an old book?" Hermione suggested. "We can ask Quirrell when he wakes up. No, just wait, Ron—you really shouldn't be moving around yet."

"Can I see it?" Ron asked groggily.

"Sure," Milo said, and tossed it over to him.

Ron flipped through a few pages. "Anyone know who "T. M. Riddle is?" Seeing them all shaking their heads, Ron pocketed the book. "What?" he asked defensively. "Ginny will be starting school next year; she'll need a notebook." Ron was always very self-conscious of his family's wealth (or lack thereof) and parchment _was_ kind of expensive (by non-PC standards, anyway), so Milo let the issue drop.

"We should probably grab the Professor and work our way backwards through the challenges," Harry suggested. "We should really tell Dumbledore about all this."

Hermione paled. "We are in _so much trouble_," she said. "We broke into the _expressly-forbidden third-floor corridor!_" she paused for a second. "And then nearly _killed_ the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor!"

"We have an even bigger problem than that," Milo said. "How in the Nine Hells do we get _out_?" The black fire was still guarding the door.

They all looked at him. Milo sighed. "_Fine_." He proceeded to wade through the flames, grab the little black bottle, carry it out, have someone drink it and walk back, wait for it to replenish, then wade through fire _again_. Rinse and repeat for his three companions and Quirrell, who was still unconscious (they had to pour the bottle down his throat and hope for the best, though, to be honest, none of them much cared if he was trapped down there or not). Then again for the purple flames. The whole process took more than an hour, but, blessedly, was timeskipped.

Milo was far too distracted thinking up what to do with his new level.

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

Author's Notes: And so, the Epic Boss Fight of Climacticity +5 comes to an end. As I mentioned above, I rolled all the attack, damage, saving throw, initiative, etc. dice for this battle (using modified Redcap stats from the MMIII and Super Secret stats for Quirrellmort). I must say, I cackled somewhat at Milo's Crit, and the feeble attempts of the unarmed Redcap trying to defeat Milo's multi-layered defences.

See you next chapter for the dénouement! (Fear not, true believers—Book 2 is already in the works)


	33. Chapter 32: Dumble-dénouement

"Tell me again why you carry a grappling hook at all times, mate?" Ron asked, giving Milo's silk rope a hefty tug. He had an ugly bruise on his temple, and likely an assortment of minor injuries, but was otherwise okay. "And a rope, for that matter."

"Came in handy, didn't it?" Milo pointed between pulls. "_Every_ adventurer has at _least_ fifty feet of rope. Some carry hundreds."

Getting back up the shaft that led to the Devil's Snare seemed, at first, an insurmountable problem—until Milo remembered he still had rope in his belt. Hermione levitated it up to the surface and latched the grappling hook onto the heavy cast iron ring the trapdoor used as a handle. Climbing up wasn't exceptionally difficult (a rope with a wall to brace against was a mere DC 5 with a 10 point reduction for having a wall to brace against. A paraplegic triple-amputee could make the check). No, the hard part was getting the still-unconscious Professor Quirrell to the top. In the end, they simply tied the rope around his waist and shoulders and decided to pull him up.

"Reckon we should have just left him there," Harry muttered. He still looked pale and shaky from Quirrell's torture spell, but hadn't mentioned it. The others decided to drop it, though Hermione gave him occasional concerned looks.

"He's a _Hogwarts Professor!_" Hermione sounded scandalized. "We can't just _leave _him!"

"We could have told McGonagall or Dumbledore, and _they_ would have gone down and got him. Besides, he _did_ try to kill us all."

Hermione made a _hmph!_ sound, but dropped the issue. It took several more minutes, but they eventually got Quirrell's limp body up to the room where Fluffy once stood.

"You know," Ron mused as he grabbed the Professor by the shoulders and dragged him onto the floor, "We likely could have just levitated him, like Hermione did the rope."

"He's far too heavy," Hermione pointed out.

"For all three of us at once?" Ron asked. "It wouldn't have taken a moment."

Harry, Hermione, and Milo stared at him for a few seconds in total silence. Hermione opened her mouth like she was going to speak, then fell silent.

"Why me?" she asked nobody in particular.

"I, for one, can think of no witch more suited for the task," someone said from the doorway. Milo, keenly aware he had only five hit points remaining (he'd gained three upon levelling up), not to mention no spells more powerful than _Acid Splash_, warily turned to the door.

"Professor!" Harry said in relief. In the doorway was none other than Professor Dumbledore, still dressed in the same purple robes he'd worn to Lucius's Manor.

"Indeed, that is my chosen vocation. Quick, as always, Mister Potter. Now, could somebody please illuminate me as to what in _Merlin's_ name is going on in my school?"

Everyone spoke at once.

"Voldemort—"

"Lucius—"

"_Please_ don't tell my mum—"

"Oh, I _know_ you said we weren't to enter the forbidden corridor, but—"

Dumbledore simply waited patiently while they all told the story, as they saw it, beginning at different times and, frequently, in backwards, frontwards, and, occasionally sidewards order.

"So, you mean to say that Quirinus—while under the sway of Voldemort—led young Milo out into the forest where a group of masked men led by Lucius Malfoy intercepted them, inadvertently foiling the plans of their incognito master, captured Milo, Disapparated back to their manor, only to have Milo escape and return to Hogwarts while the Defence Professor took Harry under the false pretenses of needing his help to rescue Milo—who needed no help, it appears, after all—to find the Philosopher's Stone, assuming that Harry would be able to breach whatever defences I had placed, only to be foiled by Milo, Ron, and Hermione?"

"Was... was that all one sentence, Professor?" Milo asked in awe—partly by the feat of linguistics, but mainly that the Headmaster had managed to listen to all four of them simultaneously. _Probably comes from a supernaturally-extended lifetime of teaching teenagers_. "Also, yes. That's pretty much how it happened."

"Very well," Dumbledore sighed, and gestured for them to follow him. "I think, perhaps, it would be best if we returned to my office to discuss this matter further."

"Where were you?" Harry asked _en route_. There was a faint accusatory note in his voice.

"The Ministry," Dumbledore said. "The reasons for which should become clear once we reach my office." The mild rebuke was enough to make Harry look at his feet and remain silent for the rest of the short, winding walk.

Upon entering the office, Dumbledore sat down on his customary chintz armchair, and, his fingers forming a steeple in front of him, spoke.

"I assume you have questions," he said. "I will, if at all possible, answer to within the best of my ability. But first, to answer Harry's: I was at the Ministry. After I was tipped off by a certain... trusted source that Milo was held within one of the Malfoy's estates, I wasted no time in informing friends within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and assisting in what is, I believe, generally called a _raid_. Incidentally, this was also my first clue as to Professor Quirrell's deception—he came to me with his story that Milo was held by vampires. I did not, however, realize the full extent of the situation until well later. By that point, I was bogged down with what I daresay was a _tremendous_ quantity of paperwork. It appears that deploying Aurors without warning against one of the more well-respected members of the wizarding community of Magical Britain is not without cost."

"So they caught Malfoy, then?" Milo was surprised. He hadn't thought that their scuffle in the manor would be the last they'd see of him. There were too many unanswered questions for that.

"Alas, no," Dumbledore sighed. "Officially, a pair of deranged wizards attempting to revive the criminal organization known as the Death Eaters broke into Malfoy's residence in an attempt to punish him for his betrayal at the end of the war. Their actions were, it appears, independent and without support from others."

"But that's not true!" Harry insisted. "He was one of them! You have to believe us!"

"Oh, I do, dear boy. But that doesn't change the fact that it will take more substantial evidence for the Ministry to mobilize in full. In the meantime, be comforted in knowing that there are those within the Ministry who are working diligently—and, unfortunately, secretly—to uncover the truth of the matter."

Harry didn't look particularly happy, but let the matter rest.

"I have a question, Headmaster," Ron interjected. "How did You-Know-Who get to be on the back of another bloke's head?"

"Unicorn's blood," Dumbledore said sadly. "It can be used to prolong one's life almost indefinitely, but at the cost of being doomed to living an unnatural half-life."

"Unnatural is bloody right," Ron muttered. "Er, sorry Professor."

"Not to worry," the Professor said, "I was momentarily distracted by a delightful passing bluebird, and seem to have missed everything you said just then."

"Er. Right."

"So," Harry said slowly, "Is he gone, then? Voldemort?"

"I'm afraid not," Dumbledore said gravely. "I don't know if it will be a year or ten, but I can be certain that he will return."

"How could you know?" Milo asked. "There's no telling the crazy results when our forms of magic interact. Mind, he's _obviously_ not gone—it's the only thing that makes sense, he has to be the _final_ boss, and this was _hardly_ final—but still. By you people's standards of _logic_, the Amulet may well have finished him off."

"While that may be a possibility," Dumbledore admitted, "Harbouring it would reduce our vigilance for his return. In general, I have found that, when it comes to dealing with Voldemort, it is best to hope for the best, prepare for the worst, and, when it comes to it, expect even worse."

"But—"

"Also, young Milo, I have access to certain sources that you do not."

"Fair enough," Milo admitted. "Now, what happens to the Defence Professor?"

"That depends," Dumbledore admitted. "I will have to talk to him when he awakes. The question to determine is to what amount he was a willing supporter of Voldemort, and what amount he was a slave. Based on your stories, it appears that he _deliberately_ took action to expel Voldemort's spirit from his body, which implies it was some of the former. I can scarcely imagine living a life such as that."

"Oh?" Harry asked, curious.

"To my limited understanding of the process, Professor Quirrell's resident, so to speak, had the power to read the Professor's mind directly. Any plan that Professor Quirrell developed could be immediately detected by Voldemort, who could—and, knowing him, would—punish his servant severely."

"Are you suggesting that Quirrell had to develop and _execute_ his plan without, at any step along the way, consciously _thinking_ about it?" Milo asked incredulously.

"Is that even _possible_?" Hermione was stunned.

"I will need to speak to him to be certain, but it would appear to be so," Dumbledore responded. "It is entirely possible that he set up the entire chain of events that led to him getting his hands on Milo's amulet deliberately. Or, perhaps more likely, he seized on the opportunity provided by his master's distracted state, caused by the brave young Mister Potter here. Whatever the case, it still remains to be determined whether or not he was, well..."

"...Evil?" Harry suggested.

"In essence. If so, I shall turn him over to the Ministry without delay. But if not... I might consider offering him a teaching position. There is, however, one thing I can say for certain."

"And what's that?" Milo asked.

"Come next term, he will no longer be the Defence Professor."

"How do you know?" Hermione asked.

"Call it an old man's intuition," Dumbledore smiled.

"I have a question, Professor," Hermione said. "What will you do with the Philosopher's Stone now? And, for that matter—where _is_ it?"

"Ah," Dumbledore said with a mischievous grin. "It was in the Mirror all along. However, I had bewitched it only to give it to someone who wanted the Stone—but not to use it."

"So he was right!" Milo exclaimed. "You _had_ set the Mirror up as some kind of elaborate test of character!"

"And I failed?" Harry asked. "Wait..." he looked at the Headmaster for a second, then suddenly laughed. "He sabotaged himself!"

"Excuse me?" Hermione asked.

"He guessed it was a test of character, but he told me that he needed the Stone to save Milo," Harry explained. "So..."

"So you wanted to use it," Milo said, grinning. "You were desperate to."

"Indeed," Dumbledore said. "And as for the Stone... it is not fully my decision to make. I'll send word to Nicolas Flamel, and together we will decide what is best. However, I think that, for now, it would be best if you all went to see Poppy in the Hospital Wing." As they all turned to leave, he added, "Except for you, Mister Amastacia-Liadon."

Milo sat down as the others left, feeling somewhat concerned. "What's up?" he asked.

"I believe it has come time for us to discuss what to do about you."

"Oh?" Milo asked apprehensively.

"Well, the simple fact of the matter is that, forgive me, you don't fully fit in here," Dumbledore said, "your form of magic being all but completely incompatible with that which is taught in this school. I can think of any number of wizarding families that would be happy to have you stay with them until such a time as we can figure how to return you to your home."

"Are... are you kicking me out?" Milo was floored. Sure, the magic was different—and he was failing Transfiguration and Potions—but he'd never imagined that he'd be thrown out like this. "Because, quite frankly Professor, you're mistaken."

"Oh? On which issue?"

"Hogwarts _is_ my home," Milo said firmly. "And I've never felt that way about anywhere else."

"Very well," Dumbledore said slowly. "I must confess, I had thought you wanted nothing more than to leave. But, seeing as that is not the case, you might want to look to your studies. Minerva is your Head of House, and she is well within her power to expel you for your grades, which, I am told, are somewhat less than doughty."

"But I'm doing my best!" Milo protested. "I can't _actually_ _do_ your magic! How am I supposed to pass?"

"You seem to have managed in at least four courses," Dumbledore pointed out.

"Two of which have no magic involved whatsoever," Milo countered, "and in Charms, I just got lucky. One of my spells is similar to the Hovering Charm, which is basically the only actual spell Flitwick taught us. The rest was theory. Thank the gods above and below that he didn't ask me to Hover anything _sideways_, or I'd have been up the Styx without a paddle." _Levitate_ could only move things vertically.

"I understand, dear boy, I do—but I'm not, quite frankly, certain what I can do about it. You see, currently, I am the only member of the faculty aware of the nature of your powers—though Minerva knows some of it, and Poppy is developing suspicions that you are, in fact, an 'Eldritch Horror from Beyond Time Come to Sow Destruction.' I could inform them, but it would come at the risk of letting your secret get out to the wider world."

"I see the problem," Milo said reluctantly. "I might—_might_—be able to fake my way through Transfiguration." He'd need a week to plan at least, and likely a month of spell research. "The other courses are, so far, not much problem—though, I suspect, at higher levels DADA will become less theory and more application, in which case I will be in trouble. But, in Potions, there's nothing I can do." Even if he took the suboptimal Brew Potion feat, he could still only make _his_ kind—that is to say, Arcane—Potions, which were very specific in their nature, effect, and brewing process.

"Then there is, happily, no problem," Dumbledore said broadly. "Graduation with a T in Potions is perfectly acceptable, though not, of course, strictly encouraged. In fact, I can pass word around that you were strongly traumatized from a young age by certain potions, and, as a result, have a severe psychological handicap to overcome. It might make things somewhat easier for you."

"You wouldn't even be lying," Milo added happily. "I'm severely traumatized by Potions every time I go into Snape's classroom."

"Very well, I believe this matter is settled," Dumbledore said with a glint in his eye. Milo was reminded once more that he was speaking to someone considerably wilier than himself, and wondered whether or not this had been the intended outcome of the conversation. "Now, I have just one more question for you," Dumbledore said slowly.

"Yes, Professor?"

"What was your mother's name?"

"Ley Amastacia." The question caught him completely by surprise, and Milo answered without thinking. He stared at Dumbledore for a moment before the knut dropped. "Pelor, Nerull and Kord!" he exclaimed. "My backstory!" The moment he said it, he _knew_ that his mother's name was Ley, and could almost picture her face.

Dumbledore simply smiled. "I think, if you move alacritously, you may be able to catch your friends before they reach the hospital wing. If you do see them, could you tell them that all four of you earned fifty house points each? Oh—and, if you could ask Harry to come visit sometime this evening, it would be much appreciated."

"Th-thank you, Professor," Milo stammered. He was still too surprised by his sudden discovery to fully process what was going on. His backstory was working again—but it seemed somewhat different from before. Back then, the answers simply appeared as necessary, but now... it was as if Milo had been the one to will them into existence. This warranted further thought and experimentation—but for now, he would just enjoy what had happened. He had to level up, sooner or later he'd have to deal with the consequences of beating Malfoy and his mooks senseless, and figure out a plan to turn a matchstick into a pin, but that could (hopefully) be done another day.

As Milo turned the doorknob, Dumbledore spoke once more.

"Oh—and Milo? I'm proud of you."

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

Author's Notes: Fear not! _Harry Potter and the Natural 20_ is not over yet! Next week's chapter will be mini-epilogues (a couple of largely disjointed short stories covering a few things left to wrap up) which will then be followed by year two, maybe after a week or two of planning, _Harry Potter and the Confirmed Critical_. For simplicity's sake, as far as Fanfiction is concerned they'll be the same fic (The first chapter of book two will be Chapter 34 of _Harry Potter and the Natural 20_). That way, you don't need to worry about finding and subscribing to a new fic.


	34. Epilogue

Author's Notes: Sorry for the lateness (as usual). Term ends tomorrow, and then there's exams, but after that I'll have a lot more time to make sure updates are regular-ish, like last Spring/Summer.

In other news, my fic so far (including the two omakes, but not the author's notes) clocks in at 265 pages, font-size 11, single-spaced. It's roughly double the length of _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_.

In other other news, the first chapter of _Harry Potter and the Confirmed Critical_ will likely be ready in two weeks. Maybe three. I want to plan ahead a little bit more in advance this time.

In other other other news, Less Wrong gave an extremely favourable review of _Harry Potter and the Natural 20 _on his website ( /notes/progress-13-04-01/), which I am strongly considering framing.

Milo does some fairly obscure and convoluted, but not particularly plot-relevant munchkinry in this chapter. I glossed over it in the prose, but, if you're interested, the details can be seen at the end of the epilogue.

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

**Epilogue One: Rebuilding**

"Honestly, Milo, you should be revising for History of Magic," Hermione chided as Milo stumbled into the Great Hall for breakfast. The exam was less than a fortnight away, but he'd hardly even glanced at his notes. The Hall was full of students, with the usual comforting white noise of hundreds of conversations going on in the background. For a time, the only topic of conversation was Professor Quirrell's sudden absence, which continued well after Dumbledore's announcement that he had suffered a nervous breakdown and was recuperating at St. Mungo's—which, as far as Milo could tell, was true. Dumbledore had been as close-mouthed and mysterious about it as he was about everything, however. Eventually, the Hogwarts students had found other topics to amuse themselves—Quidditch (Gryffindor had surprised everyone as the clear leader, with Ravenclaw and Slytherin competing neck-to-neck for second), the upcoming exams, Fred and George's latest hijinks (Hogwarts had awoken to find one of the legs of every chair in every classroom was shortened by a quarter of an inch; nobody could figure out how they'd done it), various Ministry scandals, the illustrious deeds of Gilderoy Lockhart, and, most recently, the death of some Death Eater bigshot at Azkaban. In short, as far as Milo was concerned, nothing of relevance.

"No time," Milo said sleepily. "It's almost done." He'd barely slept for weeks. There was too much to do: spell research, item crafting, and—most recently—a major feat of munchkinry. He'd discovered that there simply wasn't enough time in a day to do everything that had to be done, and that the only way for him to carry on without keeling over dead was with some magical assistance by way of a Dedicated Wright. These creatures, a form of Homunculus, were cat-sized magical automata created by spellcasters to help them craft items, both magical and mundane. Milo still had to provide the spells, and raw materials worth half the value of the finished product, but the Wright would do the actual crafting. This would free up eight hours a day from Milo's packed schedule for frivolous luxuries, such as sleep and adventuring. However, Milo lacked some of the prerequisites for creating the Wright, and so had to, through convoluted means, retrain a number of his class levels to Artificer from Wizard, then back again. While he was at it, he made a few modifications to his current build. Many of his abilities had been chosen under duress and with very specific needs in mind—needs that no longer existed—and he was in dire need of some streamlining.

"What is?" Neville asked, pouring an (un)healthy amount of salt onto his dinner. He seemed distracted, even by his usual standards.

"Careful with that!" Milo said. "Do you have _any_ idea what that's worth?"

Neville stared at him blankly, utter incomprehension evident on his round face.

"Uh... sorry? What what's worth?"

"The _salt!_ It's worth its weight in silver!" Milo was aghast that anyone would just _pour_ it onto their food like some sort of _condiment_.

"I'm pretty sure you're wrong about that," Neville said, giving him a look that Hogwarts students reserved for Milo when he exclaimed 'Natural Twenty!' after a Chaser made a particularly impressive goal. "Salt's just... well, it's salt. You can get it anywhere, it's on everything, they give it out for free in tiny paper packages at restaurants. It's _salt_."

"Wait, you're serious?" Milo asked. "They just _give_ it away?"

"'Course. It's just _salt_."

Milo blinked. Crafting magic items required a specific value of unspecified materials, so, really, anything valuable could work as long as Milo 'used it up' in the production of his gear. However, this price was measured as a _gold piece_ value, not a galleon or Muggle currency value. Salt had a fixed price of five gold pieces per pound as far as his magic was concerned, but if the local conditions meant that he could get it for a small fraction of that...

"Ha...ha...MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

**Epilogue Two: Charms Final**

"Abbot, Hannah!" Flitwick called from the front of the room. Hannah shot Milo, Harry, Ron, and Hermione a nervous look and walked to the front of the room, wand clenched with white knuckles. Harry and Ron, on Milo's left, looked somewhat pale and shaky, while Hermione, on his right, was rocking back and forth in her chair, her mouth moving soundlessly at a tremendous speed.

Of them, only Milo was unconcerned. Pretty much the only spell that they'd actually learned in Charms was the Hover Charm, which was, fortunately, one of the few spells that he could actually mimic. More or less. More pressing was the debate of which, if any, prestige classes Milo should adopt.

Up at the front of the room, Hannah stuttered slightly but managed, in the end, to lift the heavy textbook from the desk and hover it in the air for a few seconds before lowering it to the table. Flitwick, at the front, looked pleased, and Hannah scurried off through one of the side doors. Milo hardly noticed.

_Paragnostic Apostle has dead easy requirements_, Milo mused, _but the benefits are so-so._

"Amastacia-Liadon, Milo!"

_I'd have to be a member of the 'Paragnostic Assembly,' which doesn't exist here—or back in Azel, for that matter—but, when it comes down to it, I could probably just paint a sign on the door of my dorm that says 'WELCOME TO THE PARAGNOSTIC ASSEMBLY, NEW MEMBERS WELCOME' and ordain Mordy as the 'Exalted Philosopher of Paragnostic Truths'... fluff requirements are so irritating..._

"Er... Milo?"

_Master Specialist isn't bad, but the benefits don't really help me all that much. Besides, it takes Spell Focus (Conjuration)_. Milo had been planning to swap that out. The locals almost never failed to fail a save as it stood—it was almost as if they didn't even _have_ Will save bonuses!

Flitwick coughed expectantly.

"Oh, right!" Milo said absentmindedly, and tried to walk out of the aisle of students.

_I might just stay as a full Wizard, then, _Milo decided. _Mordy would chew me out if I dipped into a PrC that didn't advance Familiars, anyway. _He could swap some of his bonus feats for the Domain Granted Power ability.

"Just hover the textbook," Flitwick urged gently.

"Sure, yeah, whatever." Milo lazily drew his wand and waved it around more-or-less at random. _Not that the feats wouldn't come in handy, what with all the item crafting I've been doing_. He still couldn't believe that he was willingly sacrificing his experience points for _anything_. "Wing Guardian _Levitate_-iosa," he said.

_With all the close-quarters combat that's been happening, maybe I should take some levels of Eldritch Knight..._

Milo fought down a chuckle. Theoretically, Eldritch Knight only held back spellcasting by one level—not including the level in a martial class needed to meet the prerequisites. However, this remained strictly in the hypothetical, as nobody had yet taken two levels in Eldritch Knight and lived to talk about it. The last adventurer who came close was slain by a kitten in a fair fight.

"That," Flitwick said sternly, "was the worst Hover Charm I have _ever_ seen. Your wandwork—and footwork!—was sloppy in the extreme. Your incantation was thoroughly botched, and...and..._put me down this instant_!"

_On the other hand..._ _there really _has _been a lot of fighting._ He'd have to see if there were any magic items he could make, or spells to research, to increase his combat skills without sacrificing magic.

"Right, sorry," Milo said, and dismissed _Levitate_. Professor Flitwick, who Milo had inadvertently lifted eight feet off the ground, fell with a crash. The textbook remained on the table, completely unmoved.

"In _all_ my years teaching at Hogwarts, I've only _twice_ seen such... such..." Milo winced as Flitwick drew himself up to his full (but still tiny) height, brushing dust off of his shoulders. "such an _audacious_ display of magic from a first year student at Hogwarts!" Flitwick stretched up to Milo's ear and whispered in a conspiratorial manner, "I shouldn't be surprised, if I were you, to find that you'd received an _Outstanding_ mark, if you catch my drift."

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

For those interested, here's how Milo made the Dedicated Wright (ECS 285):

The Dedicated Wright requires five things to create: the Craft Construct feat, _Arcane Eye_, _Fabricate_, a DC 14 Craft (Pottery) check, and a body composed of "clay, glazed with a mixture of arcane unguents and the creator's blood, and fired in a kiln."

The Craft (Pottery) check was easy, seeing as how it was DC 14 and Milo already possesses a +6 modifier to Craft from Intelligence (not even including a bonus from tools and the various spells he could have used)

The materials for the body are easy: much of anything found at Hogwarts and Diagon Alley can count as "arcane unguents." Milo used powdered mistletoe berry, belladonna, and garlic, with the reasoning that there was no reason why his Homunculus _shouldn't_ be a remedy for Lycanthropy, a Divine Spell Focus for Druids, and immune to vampires. To make up the 100 gp cost requirement, he used Craft (Engraving) to carve a the homunculus into a work of art, resembling tiny little dwarf with the eye of Boccob on his forehead (incidentally making the Homunculus into a holy symbol—_just in case_). The Wright is, obviously, riddled in invisible _Arcane Marks_.

The tricky bit comes from the Craft Construct feat and _Fabricate_. The only way to get around this is retraining. Using the Philosopher's Stone dungeon as his Rebuild quest (see PHBII, 197-199), Milo swaps out his 7 of his 8 Wizard levels for Artificer. However, each dungeon run only allows him to swap 1/5 of his levels, so he simply goes back to Fluffy's room and does it again three times. He needs one level of Wizard—I'm not sure what would happen to Mordenkainen if Milo ceased being a Wizard altogether, and neither is Milo. Nothing good, to be sure. Completing the dungeon run again is no problem, as he knows which potion to drink, knows the weakness of the Devil's Snare, and can use the same set of moves as Ron did to beat the chess game every time.

As an Artificer, Milo can craft magic items without knowing the requisite spells. _Fabricate_ is a mere third-level spell for the Trapsmith class (from Dungeonscape), so it can be easily copied. _Arcane Eye_, likewise.

Milo can likewise retrain one of his feats for Craft Construct

After the Wright is finished, Milo can rebuild his character back to Wizard. This all has to be finished in a short timeframe, as the Philosopher's Stone run will presumably be dismantled and lose its dungeon-status after the Stone is moved.


	35. CC 1: Dynamic Entry

**Author's Notes:** Well, here it is, as promised—the sequel. Here's Milo's latest character sheet: ?sheetid=553596

However, Milo's build is undergoing some substantial behind-the-scenes modifications, and it's not quite done yet. Nothing mentioned in the chapter will be altered, but his stats, feats, spells, and gear are subject to change without warning. I decided it would be ridiculous to hold back the next chapter after I'd finished writing it just because I hadn't finished picking spells and sorting through Milo's skills. Also, for those of you wondering about Milo's choice of PrC, I have one answer to you:_ text trumps table_. I couldn't believe it either.

**Chapter One: Dynamic Entry**

"Gah!" Milo said, the sphere growing to reach his neck. "What did you—how did—_I won Initiative_, damnit! This isn't fair!"

Wellby watched, horrified, as a sphere of darkness flickering with green lightning spread to envelop his young companion. _What in Yondolla's cornucopia was _that? Ironically, Milo was the only one in the party with any significant ranks in Spellcraft but he was far too busy being swallowed by the mysterious void to identify the unknown spell. As a Rogue, Wellby had far more important things to do with his Skill Ranks, plentiful as they were.

"You... you... " Wellby was speechless. Sure, sometimes PCs were killed—or worse—by villains, but... in the surprise round? That broke the code.

"No, I didn't—" Thamior the Thaumaturge protested, backing away in fear from the ball of darkness. Milo was now nowhere to be seen.

Wellby glanced at Gerard, their heavily armed-and-armoured Fighter, who nodded silently.

"Have at thee, thou villain!" Gerard shouted, brandishing his greatsword, and charged Thamior, who still seemed too surprised—a careful act, no doubt—to act. If Gerard could land the swing, the fight would be effectively over. At third level, there were few forces more feared than an 18 Strength, Power Attacking Fighter armed with a Masterwork Greatsword making an unimpeded charge—especially to a target as squishy as Thamior, who, despite his title, seemed to be a Wizard.

Mid-swing, a brilliant green flash temporarily blinded Wellby, who was setting himself up for a flank attack behind Thamior. If by poor rolls or unexpected circumstance modifiers Gerard failed to finish off the Wizard that killed Milo, Wellby would be perfectly positioned to make a Sneak Attack with each of his swords for, frankly, ludicrous damage.

When Wellby's vision returned, Gerard lay on the ground, unmoving. A quick Spot check confirmed the worst: somehow, on his _own turn_, Gerard was killed.

"Save-or-Die!" Zook, their gnome Cleric, shouted from the back of the room. Wellby went cold with fear. The majority of instant death spells out there, to his knowledge, targeted Fortitude, which was Gerard's highest save. If _he_ couldn't make the DC, Wellby wouldn't have a lantern archon's chance in Ba'ator if he were hit as well.

Thamior, evidently making a similar conclusion, stepped back and raised a black-gloved hand. "_Dark Way!_" he shouted. Thamior had used this spell before. _Dark Way_ was supposedly invented for bridging gaps, but the unbreakable magical bridge saw far more use employed as an _ad hoc_ wall. A night-black, steeply slanted wall of magic appeared between Thamior and the dark sphere, which had finally stopped growing, with a diameter around seven feet across. Though thin, the wall was impenetrable to anyone without about a tonne of weight to drop on it or the ability to cast _Dispel Magic_.

Wellby dived behind the body of his fallen comrade, Gerard, and put his massive Hide bonus to good use—his high Dexterity, skill ranks, and Halfling size bonus made him all but invisible. "_Nightshield_," he heard Zook cast across the room. Wellby's position prevented him from being able to see his Cleric companion, but he had a clear view of Thamior, who appeared to be focussing his attention on the dark sphere.

"_Avada Kedavra!_" Another green flash appeared. Wellby clearly saw a green bolt of magic fly _through_ the _Dark Way_ wall—impossible as that was—and collide with Thamior in the chest. Their recurring villain slumped to the floor, landing with a soft thud. He was facing Wellby, who was presented with a clear view of his blank, dead eyes.

Wellby dropped his swords and began throwing daggers into the void as quickly as he could—which, for a Two-Weapon-Fighting Rogue, is pretty quick. He didn't know what lay at the centre of the thing, but enough Sneak Attack-augmented daggers would kill most anything—except for Undead, Constructs, Oozes, Plants, Elementals...

"_Protego_." A pair of daggers collided with a solid, invisible obstacle and fell to the ground.

Abruptly, the sphere vanished, revealing, not as Wellby has assumed, an eldritch Abomination from the Far Lands, but a woman. Her long, wild black hair was tangled about her head, and her ragged black robes hung loosely on her emaciated frame. Wherever she'd come from, it hadn't treated her well. She held a slender walnut wand just over a foot long loosely in her right hand, twirling it about idly. Wellby attempted a Sense Motive, and immediately regretted it. Her heavy-lidded eyes seemed to flash between emotions seemingly at random, with dull boredom being replaced by excitement, rage, sadness, and a degree of bloodlust he usually associated with Barbarians without any apparent impetus.

"_Avada Kedavra_." There was another brilliant flash, and Wellby heard a heavy metal-on-stone clank. He didn't have to be able to see Zook to know what had happened.

_A primary caster with the ability to spam high-DC Save-or-Die spells?_ Wellby thought rapidly. _Two options: either she's _well_ beyond our ECL, or she's min-maxed to the Outer Planes and back_. _If so, she _probably _doesn't have the Hit Points or Base Attack Bonus to back up that kind of magic_. Either option shattered convention—NPCs were not traditionally optimized, and it was practically unheard-of for one high enough level to cast that many death spells in a day to interfere with a third-level party. Either way, Wellby's best chance lay in closing the distance and engaging in melee. He might be able to break her concentration with Attacks of Opportunity—maybe. If he could last a few rounds, he might—_might_—be able to finish her off. Gerard could likely do it, but without surprise or an ally to flank with, Wellby was unable to Sneak Attack, making him barely more powerful than a caster of his level.

Nothing for it. Wellby eased his twin swords out of their sheathes, took a deep breath, and leapt out from over Gerard's body. The woman let out a mad scream of laughter, simultaneously condescending and contemptuous.

"_Imperio_."

o—o—o—o

Eleven months later, Milo lay on his back in the grass outside the Burrow enjoying a cool breeze. His modified Hogwarts uniform could protect him from the heat of a burning building, meaning that even the normally-blistering July heat passed him by completely. Mordy, Milo's rat familiar, was putting his modest swim speed to good use splashing about in a nearby pond. A few of the Weasley's resident gnomes had thought Mordy might make a decent light brunch a few days before. The familiar remained evasive as to what, exactly, went down, but nobody had seen nor heard from the gnomes—or _any_ gnome, for that matter—since.

Without a home to return to, Milo had tried to convince Dumbledore to allow him to stay at Hogwarts over the summer. In addition to the obvious perks—free food and solid stone walls—it would give him ample time to explore and discover some of the castle's secrets before his next adventure. Also, though Milo was somewhat hesitant to admit it even to himself, he'd been increasingly thinking of the school as his new home. He must have failed his Diplomacy check pretty severely, because the normally lenient Headmaster put his foot down. Apparently, it was standard procedure to refuse students' requests to stay over the summer, as Harry had also been sent home. Milo tried not to feel bitter about the whole matter and make the most of his between-adventure downtime. Right now, though it didn't look like it, Milo was actually (in a manner of speaking) hard at work crafting magical gear.

In a relatively unused part of the Burrow's grounds, Cog was putting the finishing touches on an Anklet of Translocation. The Dedicated Wright was, with the single-minded focus only found in Constructs and undergrads during finals, busy grinding salt next to his miniature forge. The tiny clay automaton was tasked with creating Milo's magic items eight hours every day, and spending the other sixteen hammering out mastercraft-quality mundane equipment. By the forge was a veritable mountain of road salt, purchased with British pounds from Gringotts. Despite the fact that the Gringotts exchange rate appeared to have been last updated in 1867, Milo was still getting an enormously superior amount of gold piece value this way than using Harry's galleons and sickles directly. He had to get Hermione to handle the Muggle end of the business (Muggles were clueless as to why they were paid to dump tonnes of salt at the end of a seemingly abandoned road), but for 3 pounds sterling and some change per 10 kilos of road salt (Milo still couldn't believe that they poured the stuff on their roads in winter when it would be vastly cheaper to animate an army of skeletons to shovel snow manually), Milo was making 110 gp. Considering that Gringotts offered 5 pounds per galleon and that a galleon weighed in at around 6 and a third gp, Milo was using his borrowed money approximately 3000% more efficiently than last year. He drooled a little at the thought. And that was just the beginning. Hermione seemed to think that the exchange rate offered by Gringotts was deeply exploitative, and was, according to a recent owl letter, currently investigating the value of the precious metal weight of wizarding currency in pounds sterling and the possibility of bypassing the goblin bank altogether. This baffled Milo (and Mister Weasley, an expert in the field of all things Muggle-related), who grew up in a world where the value of currency _was_ the weight of the metals it was stamped from. Assuming Milo maintained his rate of experience-point gathering next year, it would—possibly—become viable for him to start selling his world's magic items to local wizards (in extremely limited quantities, of course). He'd had Cog crank out a few Amulets of Protection from Evil for that very purpose.

As Milo lay thinking about all the money he was saving and the exorbitant rates he could charge for a simple charm that would provide 100% protection against the (debatably) second-most feared curse in this world and idly watching the Weasley kids play Quidditch, he realized something disconcerting.

He was bored.

Milo had been bored in the past—occasionally. It was a rare occurrence, and nothing particularly concerning on its own. More worryingly, however, was that at some point he'd dropped out of a timeskip. Milo's awareness of the weather confirmed it. There were only two reasons for such an occurrence: flavour and drama. Were the first option the case, the timeskip immediately would have resumed after some humorous or character-establishing moment, followed by another—say, at dinner, where the NPCs would discuss foreshadowing. But Milo was still experiencing time at a one-to-one ratio, barring this from being the case.

Something was awry.

He glanced at Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny in the sky on their broomsticks. Ginny, as usual, had the Quaffle (confusingly, the term for this appeared to be 'in possession,' a phrase that made Milo itch to cast _Protection from Evil_) while Ron was desperately trying to defend the yew trees they were using as a stand-in for hoops. In short, everything seemed to check out. Milo pinched his own right thigh—a prearranged signal to Mordy via empathic bond meaning 'possible danger, cause unknown'—and, with an exaggerated false yawn, got to his feet. His familiar, meanwhile, hopped out of the water and into the once-gnome-infested tall grass to scout.

Milo fought down his recently-acquired instinct to reach for a weapon—his new Lesser Crystal of Return, which allowed him to draw one in the blink of an eye made that unnecessary—and, trying to watch everything simultaneously, entered the Burrow itself. Mordy would be most effective checking the grounds, but in the house, his Scent ability would be hindered by the aroma of Molly Weasley's famed home cooking.

"_Detect Thoughts_," Milo muttered under his breath. Of all the different Divination spells to detect another creature's presence, this one had proven the most reliable so far. Ironically, _See Invisibility_ was only effective on Harry's Invisibility Cloak, as it was the only local magic he'd yet seen capable of rendering its wearer perfectly invisible. While there were dozens of ways of concealing one's appearance, preventing oneself from thinking altogether was much more difficult—although, like everything else, even _Detect Thoughts_ could be fooled. Milo was all too aware of the unpredictable nature of the interactions between his magic and the denizens of this world.

His Divination registered one sapient mind, though that did not rule out creatures of animal-level intelligence, or creatures immune to mind-affecting spells. As he walked through the living room towards the kitchen, he activated the Augment Crystal. Out of one of the pockets of his Belt of Hidden Pouches flew a sword into Milo's ready hand.

As you may have surmised, Milo being an adventurer—and a PC on top—this was no ordinary sword. Adventurers after a certain level, regardless of class, are _never_ content to simply write 'long sword' on their character sheets and leave it at that. This sword was magical. This sword was three feet long and shone like a mirror. This sword was slender in much the same way that the hope of a one-armed man hanging from a tuft of grass on the edge of a cliff was slender. This sword had a twisted, gold-decorated basket hilt wrapped around a crystal the colour of a cloudless sky. Four purple glass eyes of Boccob encircled the pommel, each facing in a different direction. Sometimes, in the flickering light of a dying candle or summer rain, it almost seemed as if they were watching you—which was perfectly sensible, because that's _exactly_ what they were doing.

This sword was, for the technically inclined, a +1 Elven Thinblade of Warning, and it was never meant to be used. As long as Milo held it, he was granted a +5 bonus to Initiative that stacked with Nerveskitter and Improved Initiative. Milo had realized that, despite his best efforts, he frequently found himself thrown directly into the fray without bigger, stronger allies to cover him. He'd also realized that, despite being pathetic by the standards he was accustomed to, he'd somehow become superior to most wanded wizards in melee combat. So he'd adapted, and made the sword before retraining Craft Magic Arms and Armour out for Uncanny Forethought. He was still a Wizard through and through, and therefore incalculably more useless in hand-to-hand than he was with magic, but he had absolutely no intention of being trounced by a Redcap again.

This sword was one-half of that intention made manifest. Nevertheless, it was strictly a last resort, to be used primarily for its bonus to Initiative.

Milo carefully pushed open the door to the kitchen with his left hand and listened.

_Chop. Chop. Chop-chop-chop_.

Images of a demon butcher, Weasley blood dripping down his already bloodstained apron and wielding a bloodstained cleaver filled Milo's imagination.

"_WAAAAAAAAGH!_" he shouted, charging into the room.

"Oh!" Molly Weasley gasped in surprise, stepping back from the door and setting down her kitchen knife. A small pile of chopped carrots lay on the table. "Frightened me half to death! What did I tell you boys about playing indoors? Especially with toys like that—you could poke somebody's eye out!"

Milo groaned, and dismissed _Detect Thoughts_.

"Sorry, Miss Weasley," he said, feeling slightly ashamed. "It won't happen again."

"Oh, I don't blame you, dear. I'm sure it was Fred or George that put you up to it."

Milo felt his face heat up, and slowly tried to back his way out of the kitchen.

"I'll just be leaving, now—"

"Don't think you'll get away that easily!" she scolded. Milo froze.

"I, er—"

Milo had thought that his draw speed with his Crystal of Return was fast, but he had _nothing_ on Molly Weasley. In a flash—almost literally—his weapon was on the table, and there was a plate piled high with carrots, thick, buttered toast, and potatoes. At first, he thought she'd used magic—except that her wand lay on the kitchen table beside his sword. As the stack of food rose to almost touch the tip of his nose, she seemed apparently satisfied.

Somehow, Milo's thin build—a symptom of his poor Strength and Constitution, as well as how the dice rolled for his height and weight, something which he had no control over—made Molly almost personally offended. The redheaded whirlwind of a woman seemed to believe, somehow, that there was a correlation between eating habits and weight (a fact _consistently_ disproven by the Coastal Collegiate of Theoretical Arcanists, Azel's main academic body that experimented with the laws of the universe in order to update the Rules periodically for accuracy).

As Milo stumbled out of the kitchen, still slightly unsure of what, exactly, just happened, he became aware of just how hungry he was. Eating was still something that was relatively new to him—until fairly recently, he'd eaten the required 'about a pound' of food per day from his Everlasting Rations and ignored the matter entirely. It was not until he'd been practically forced to eat a handful of Every-Flavoured Beans that he'd realized what he'd been missing.

Milo sat down on the steps outside of the Burrow and began munching on his toast while he waited for Mordy to return and report. Almost as an afterthought, he activated the Crystal of Return once more, and the sword re-appeared in Milo's hand in an instant. He'd had to pay extra for that feature—it had come out to almost 9 pounds worth of salt—but, knowing the universe's DM (Diabolical Meddling), he figured it might come up. _Knowing the way things went last year, I'll probably end up hanging upside down in a Yeti's cave or something and out of magic, with my sword lying on the floor just out of reach and horrible growling growing ever louder..._

Milo's experiences as a first year student had honed the paranoid instincts he'd learned as an adventurer to a razor's edge.

Milo was contemplating casting a barrage of defensive spells when Mordy came scurrying up to him.

"Nothing out there," his familiar said in their secret language. "Though, we both know my scouting abilities—and yours, without magic—will become increasingly ineffective as our ECL increases. So, I didn't smell anything, but that doesn't necessarily mean that there isn't an invisible Hezrou about to rip your face off."

"Right," Milo said. Once again, he found himself missing his party, and wondering what Wellby, Zook, and Gerard were up to—especially Wellby, who had the highest Spot and Listen modifiers. Scouting was usually his job. On the other hand, maybe there really _was_ nothing wrong. Maybe the entire encounter with Molly _was_ simply for flavour (Milo resisted making a pun involving the deliciousness of the homemade toast he was munching on—barely).

But... it felt wrong. If that were the case, why was he still here, thinking about it? The timeskip should have resumed.

Setting his plate aside, Milo strode over to the makeshift Quidditch pitch.

"Oi!" he shouted up at the players.

"What's up?" Ron shouted back down, from atop his broomstick. Ginny, seizing the opportunity provided by his momentary distraction, scored a goal.

"Something's awry! Get down here." One by one, Ron, his younger sister, and the twins descended to the grass.

"What's going on?" Ron asked. "And what's with the sword?"

"I've got a bad feeling," Milo admitted. "It's hard to explain—but before you ask, yes, it's reliable."

"Nah, I wasn't going to," Ron shrugged. "You've got me confused with Hermione. Can you get any specifics?"

"It's sort of vague, but..." Milo struggled to come up with words to explain his position. "You see, from where I'm from, people sometimes get a... sense... that something significant is about to happen."

"And you're getting it right now?" Fred asked.

"Yeah. Only, it doesn't _look_ like anything that important is happening."

"I dunno about _that_," Ginny said. "Me and George were stomping those two by eight-nothing."

Ron coloured slightly. "I think," he said, "that we should try to focus on the matter at hand. So you think there's something 'significant' happening to you?"

"Yeah, see—" Milo paused. No, it _didn't_ mean something significant was happening to _him_. Now that he thought about it, time could slow in this manner if _anyone_ in the party was in an encounter. And the party was split halfway across the country... "It could also be Harry or Hermione."

"You don't think—"

"Yeah. I do." Harry was the obvious first choice, being the PC with the most connection to the main plot—and the one that Voldemort's goons had the most incentive to target. Any old Death Eater or Death Eater-wannabe could score major points with the Dark Lord by bagging the Boy-Who-Lived. "I think Harry's in danger."

"Right," George said. "I'll get the car, and—"

"—Ginny," Fred continued seamlessly, "you—"

"Run interference," Ginny said, rolling her eyes. "Got it. I'll tell mum you lot are chasing gnomes, trying to test out Lockhart's new, _'improved'_ methods." Milo didn't think he'd ever heard anyone pour quite so much sarcasm into a single word before.

"Wait, George—a carriage or chariot?" Milo asked. He couldn't see how either of those would help very much—surely, broomstick travel would be faster, especially in the hilly terrain.

"Oh, you'll see," George winked, striding off to an old shed.

o—o—o—o

"Boccob, Lord of All Magic, Archmage of the Gods, hear my prayer and reach Your Uncaring hand from the Concordant Domain of the Outlands and save Your faithful servant—" Milo muttered frantically, hanging on for dear life in the back of the Ford Anglia as it soared with the grace of a cinderblock across Great Britain. While he knew, rationally speaking, that this death trap was held up by magic—even if he couldn't detect it—it was beyond unnerving. Further, he _knew_ that if he fell out, he could simply _Feather Fall_ or _Fly_ to the surface safely. It was, however, somewhat more difficult to convince his hindbrain that he was perfectly safe being held up in the sky by what appeared to be a non-magical horseless carriage—_that he couldn't see_. He couldn't even see his own hands. For the sake of science, however, Milo knew what he must do. There was, really, only one option.

"_Detect Invisibility_," he muttered, managing to scrape past the Concentration DC—barely. Nothing happened, however. _Another point for their magic_, he thought sourly, and dismissed the spell.

"Where'd he go?" George, who was driving, asked suddenly, causing Milo to dive into another bout of prayer. Not, of course, that he really expected Boccob to do anything—deities tended to act through their Clerics, Paladins, and Favoured Souls (of which, Boccob had none, save for the occasional Mystic Theurge. They didn't call him the 'Uncaring One' for nothing). It just seemed vaguely appropriate to Milo, who was still new to this whole 'roleplaying' thing.

"Little to the left," Ron said over the roar of the engine.

Seeing as how none of them actually knew where Harry's house was, they'd, at Ginny's suggestion, released their owl Errol with a letter addressed for Harry and followed it. Wanded wizards' owl familiars, or whatever they were called, seemed to have magically-enhanced locating skills. They could find just about anyone, anywhere in the world.

The problem, of course, was that Errol and Scabbers were in many ways a matched set. The elderly owl seemed to fall asleep occasionally mid-flight, plummeting to the earth for a few seconds, before waking up and continuing his flight, often mere inches from the roof of a house or the tip of a tree.

"Wait!" Fred said. "Is that the one?"

Errol had made a sudden dive—not uncommon, but this one seemed _slightly_ more deliberate than the previous ones.

"Nah," George said, "Harry wouldn't be caught dead in a place like that."

Number Four, Privet Drive fell neatly into the uncanny valley of houses. Its gardens were too perfectly laid-out, its grass too green, its whitewashed fence too clean—it simply didn't look real. It was like an Illusion of a house cast by someone who had only read about them. It was the abstract ideal of a house. It had never been lived in—either literally or figuratively, Milo couldn't tell. Anyone who _did_ live in that house very clearly had no life at all worth speaking of.

"It's the place," Ron said, and Milo was compelled to agree. Harry rarely spoke of his adopted family—they were usually referred to as 'the Muggles,' who were 'horrible,' and left at that. But, the tiny amount of information Milo knew about Harry's life outside of Hogwarts fit this place to a T. _Little Whinging,_ Milo decided, _is where souls come to die_.

"Right," Milo said, pulling himself together with effort. _This could be an encounter_, he reminded himself. _The only fear you can feel is from a Fear effect_. "Everyone know their places?"

"I'll be round front, ready to drive the getaway car in case of emergency," George said.

"And I'll be with Ron, searching the upper storeys for Harry," Fred said.

"What about you?" Ron asked.

Milo smiled. "Dynamic entry."

o—o—o—o

"And _you_?" said Uncle Vernon viciously to Harry.

"I'll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I'm not there," he said.

"Too right you will," said Uncle Vernon forcefully. "The Masons don't know anything about you and it's going to stay that way. When dinner's over, you take Mrs Mason back to the lounge for coffee, Petunia, and I'll bring the subject round to drills..."

Harry zoned out as Uncle Vernon went over the plan again. They'd been through this seven times. While the Dursleys had locked up Hedwig, he was still receiving occasional mail from the wizarding world—and could always send a return letter using the same owl. The truth was, his bedroom was exactly where he wanted to be. He had no desire whatsoever to meet the Masons, or to spend any more time around the Dursleys than was strictly necessary. _Who knows, if I'm lucky, there could be a birthday letter from Ron in there, waiting for me_. Post from Hermione was more problematic, as she didn't have an owl and had to rely on Muggle post. The Dursleys, who specialized in making Harry's life as miserable as possible, threw any letters they could find addressed to him into the oven (Uncle Vernon tried the fireplace first, before Aunt Petunia reminded him that it was boarded up). Still, Harry managed to snatch the odd letter from her before the Dursleys could burn them. Hermione had mitigated the problem somewhat by sending each letter in triplicate on different days, increasing Harry's chance to get at least one.

"They're here!" Dudley shouted in grotesque excitement from the window.

Harry didn't wait to be told off, and bolted up the stairs. The trouble he would get in if the Masons learned of his existence would outweigh any fleeting enjoyment he would feel for causing problems for them.

"May I take your coats, Mr and Mrs Mason?" Harry heard from the floor below as he closed the door on his new bedroom behind him. The Dursleys had given him the spare bedroom in the vain hope that Hogwarts' letters (which were addressed to 'the Cupboard under the Stairs') would be unable to find him. Harry, who rather enjoyed his upgraded quarters, had no intention of disabusing them of this notion.

Harry's spirits fell somewhat as he noticed the distinct lack of cards and presents by the window. He'd even left it open, with a small bowl of owl feed nearby, for that very purpose.

It was then that he heard the crash.

o—o—o—o

Milo dived from the Anglia into the clouds. In midair, he readied an action. He'd discovered from overhearing conversations between the Weasley's about Quidditch that, in this plane of existence, people had a hard time hitting moving targets for some reason—the faster the target, the harder the shot. Milo had no such restriction (in fact, it was significantly _easier_ to hit a running target), which did not stop him from exploiting this quirk of the local rules. While falling, he adopted an aerodynamic posture to maximise his velocity.

As he came within an inch of the roof, his Readied Action triggered.

"_Dimension Door_." Milo's view of the Dursleys' roof was suddenly replaced by a view of the Dursleys' tasteless dining room and Petunia's tasteless cooking. Like all Teleportation spells, _Dimension Door_ placed the target on the nearest solid surface, in this case, the dining room table. _Dimension Door_, however, does not modify the target's momentum.

"_Feather Fall_," Milo cast the instant—literally—he re-appeared, sword in hand, standing on the table—still moving at terminal velocity. _Feather Fall_, contrary to popular opinion, did more than simply slow a falling creature, because if it did, the sudden deceleration would kill anyone targeted by it. In addition, it explicitly made the target immune to falling damage. It is this effect that Milo required. Milo appeared on the table loaded with an enormous amount of momentum, but, thanks to _Feather Fall_, the sudden impact had no effect on him. The table, not being a target of _Feather Fall_, had no such magical protection, and had to deal with Milo's sudden change of velocity in a manner more in line with the laws of physics, as if he had crashed into it at a high speed.

The table exploded the moment Milo's feet touched it, filling the room with splinters, while Milo—now immune to falling damage, thanks to _Feather Fall_—slowly floated down to touch the floor. _Wizards one, physics zero_, Milo thought smugly amid the devastation.

Chunks of table and fine china had smashed through the Dursleys' front window, shattering it and covering the floor with glass shards. Petunia threw herself over Dudley protectively, knocking them both to the floor, while Vernon's chair was knocked backwards. The Masons, who were sitting next to Vernon, were both blasted to the floor as well.

Milo didn't really know, or much care, who these people were. He knew that Harry was very probably in danger, and that any or all of the apparent Muggles surrounding him could be dark wizards in disguise, or, more likely, under the effects of the Imperius curse.

"Right," Milo said authoritatively. "Where's Harry?"


	36. CC 2: Nicked

**Author's Notes:** It appears that last chapter's Author's Notes got misplaced before posting, somehow. Peculiar. Well, it's back up, with the link to the character sheet. Milo's build _still_ isn't quite finalized (mainly I just need to pick a few more spells for Spell Mastery and clean up his skills) but that won't affect the story noticeably. Enjoy!

**Today's Character Sheet:** myth-weavers com/sheetview php?sheetid=553596

**Chapter Two: Nicked**

"WHAT THE EFF IS GOING ON HERE?" Vernon roared, climbing to his feet and brushing dust and _crème brulee_ out of his impressive mustache. "WHO THE—"

"Nope," Milo said, using his magically-enhanced fencing ability to slice off the left half of Vernon's exceptional mustache.

"Who is this '_Harry_?'" asked Mrs Mason, who seemed to be taking the situation remarkably well, all things considered. "There's no Harry here; I'm afraid you have the wrong house."

"Harry Potter," Milo clarified. _Pelor, but these people are dim_. "He _does_ live here, does he not?"

"He's... our nephew," Vernon said, glancing hesitantly at the Masons. "Left in our care after his criminal parents died. He's very disturbed, but we do what we can—"

"So he _is_ here," Milo grinned. "Now hand him over before things get ugly."

Vernon turned back to Milo and drew himself up to his full height, brushing splinters from the shoulder of his ruined jacket. He seemed to be two completely different people, depending on who he was talking to—ingratiating to the NPC couple, brash and boisterous to Milo. Peculiar.

"Do I look like the sort of man who can be intimidated?" he asked, his face growing even redder. Milo looked him up and down. _Well, yes—if I had ranks in Intimidate. But, seeing as how I do not..._

"I was thinking less 'intimidation' and more 'business arrangement.' You give me Harry, and I give you a house."

"A—a house?" Petunia perked up from the corner.

"Well, following the principle that a silver piece saved is a silver piece earned, if I refrain from levelling this pitiful excuse for a house around you with magic, you are, in effect, gaining a house."

Vernon seemed to be debating his options—on the one hand, he wanted nothing more than a convenient excuse to be rid of his troublesome nephew, but on the other hand, he didn't want to be seen backing down in front of his wife and son (and, more importantly, potential business partners)—while, in the corner, Mrs Mason was fiddling with some sort of doodad on the wall. It didn't seem to be a weapon or wand of any sort, so Milo ignored it. If one of the Muggles was a wizard in disguise and _did_ try a curse, Milo could always cast _Greater Mirror Image_. If they pulled a dagger or sword, well... Milo would introduce them to the meaning of 'Linear Fighter/Quadratic Wizard.'

He heard a muffled crash and what could possibly be voices from upstairs, though it was hard to make out what they were saying. If everything went well, Ron and Fred had found Harry upstairs and were ferrying him out the window to the Anglia, which was parked out front—just out of view of the remains of the Dursleys' window. Milo only had to maintain his distraction for a little while longer before bailing out. That meant he had to change the topic.

"So, Mr Derby," Milo said to Vernon in his most menacing voice, "I hear you've been treating my friend Harry a mite... poorly."

"What?" Vernon exclaimed in exaggerated offence. "We give him three meals a day and put a roof over his head! And what does he do—"

"Saved your lot's measly lives, if I remember things correctly," Milo said. "Defeated a dark wizard hells-bent on causing havoc for you Muggles."

"No, we're the Masons, not the Muggles," Mr Mason said. His eyes were unfocussed, and he appeared to be in some form of shock.

"Now," Milo said in what he hoped was a tone of deadly quiet, "We're going to talk about what you and your family can do to improve things for my friend Harry..."

o—o—o—o

"I hesitate to ask," Harry said, passing Hedwig's cage carefully through the open window to Ron, who was waiting on broomstick to take his luggage. "But is there any chance that this was Milo's plan?"

"Yup," Ron said cheerfully. "But from what I've heard, it sounds like no more than those Muggles deserve."

"Well... true," Harry agreed, pushing his school trunk out the window. He hadn't bothered to unpack it after returning from Hogwarts. "Still, I can't help but think this plan will end in disaster."

"Nah," Ron said optimistically. "You're just saying that because they always do."

o—o—o—o

"And I will guarantee that he eats the same food that we do..." Milo said.

"And I will guarantee that he eats the same food that we do," Vernon repeated impatiently.

"And I will give him his fair share of the loot," Milo continued.

"And I will give him his fair share of the loot," Vernon said. He'd long since given up questioning some of Milo's more exotic terms. Petunia, in the corner, looked more and more horrified with each swordpoint concession.

"Where 'fair share' is defined as 'one over the number of people involved.'"

"Where 'fair share' is defined as 'one over the number of people involved.'"

"And I will pay any and all gold necessary to Clerics to cure Harry in the event of injury or death..."

o—o—o—o

"Yes, Ron," Harry sighed. "That's exactly why I said it."

"Well, I think it's brilliant," Fred said, helping Harry onto his broomstick. "Milo can use magic over the summer, and it's not like we have to worry about the Muggles finding out—that lot already knows about us."

"I suppose," Harry said doubtfully, pulling his Invisibility Cloak over them as they flew the short distance from the window to the car. "Wait," he said suddenly, his hand on the door. "Did anyone actually _tell _Milo that we have to keep magic secret from the other Muggles?"

It was then that he saw the police cruiser fly around the corner at well past the speed limit.

o—o—o—o

"...And I will actively prevent glass cannons from achieving a flank position on Harry through appropriate deployment of tanks and battlefield control," Vernon said, bored.

"POLICE!"

Little Whinging, being an idyllic, upper-middle-class suburb with an extremely low crime rate, had a police response time second to none—an unfamiliar concept to Milo, who was used to a city watch response of roughly 1d6 rounds (if the PC did it) or 1d100 hours at best (if it was anyone else).

A blue-uniformed, tanned man with close-cropped blond hair kicked entered through the unlocked front door, club in hand. His cap and reflective sunglasses hid most of his face, but his expression was grim.

"Drop the weapon!" he shouted.

_Unarmoured man with a club?_ Milo thought contemptuously, _this must be the militia_. Clearly, no threat whatsoever. Just as clearly, however, the situation was rapidly getting out of control. He could fight his way out, but then he'd get reported to the local magistrate, and might have to deal with a more competent response. Untrained, level one Commoners had a more easily exploitable weakness, however.

"How does three gold pieces sound?" Milo asked. That was roughly a month's wages for the Myra (cityoflight!cityof_magic_!) city watch.

"Just put down the weapon," he insisted, "and we can talk after." The guard took another step towards Milo.

"Twenty gold," Milo said. _No, wait, the Muggles don't use gold as currency_. _But I haven't got any pounds on me_. "Five hundred pounds of salt?" _The Player's Handbook _does _state that commodities—which includes salt—are often usable as currency_.

The city guardsman gave Milo an odd look.

"Is this a hoax?" he asked the adults.

"No!" Petunia shrieked. "Arrest him! He's deranged and dangerous!"

"Right," he said, turning back to Milo. "Put the weapon down, and come with me. Now."

Milo sighed. It looked like it was going to be one of _those_ situations.

"_Evard's Black Tentacles_." Hundreds of thick, sticky black appendages burst out of the floor, ceiling, and walls to grab the guardsman. The spell was too large to fit into the dining room without also grabbing Milo, so it spilled out into the front hall and lawn.

o—o—o—o

"Oh bollocks," Ron muttered.

"Should we help him?" Harry asked.

"Nah," said Fred. "We can't do magic without getting expelled—he can."

"So we'd best wait in the car and be ready to gun it," George finished.

o—o—o—o

Miss Figg knew this day would come, though she'd hoped it wouldn't. Peering out of the front window, she saw black tentacles—dark magic, if she'd ever seen it—attack the poor Muggle policeman. It was clear what was happening: despite Dumbledore's assurances, the Death Eaters were making an attempt on the Boy-Who-Lived's life.

She grabbed a pen and quill and hurriedly began to write. As a squib, she couldn't simply Apparate to the Ministry, or otherwise use magic to communicate. She just hoped that her owl was fast enough that the DMLE could get a team of hit-wizards there in time...

o—o—o—o

Milo debated his options briefly. Obviously, he couldn't kill a member of the city watch. As it stood, he could do what most PCs did—evade the law until he could convince the local mayor or lord of his innocence, generally by killing his resident Evil Vizier in the main hall of the palace. On the other hand, if he could prevent this guardsman from reporting, it would simplify the issue greatly. But, without access to Enchantments or an incredibly high Diplomacy bonus, that was a nearly impossible task without resorting to murder.

Milo heard a sudden, muffled squeak of wood from behind him, and spun around to see yet another club-wielding member of the watch, who, aside from gender, looked much the same as the first. She had shoulder-length brown hair, a slight build, and a set to her jaw that told Milo (who had finally invested a few ranks into Sense Motive) that she meant business. If she was surprised to see her partner being wrestled to the floor by magical tentacles, she hid it well.

"Look—" he began. In no mood for discussion, the officer, with deceptive strength, grabbed Milo's sword arm at the wrist and roughly shoved him to the ground. The weapon clattered to the ground, and she kicked it away across the room. Milo heard the characteristic click of handcuffs clasping around his wrists as she pressed him against the ground with a knee.

_Well, I'm an idiot_, he thought to himself. _How did I see a warrior without armour or weapon to speak of and not _immediately _think 'Monk'?_ _Stupid, stupid, stupid_.

"Right," she said. "I don't know what the _hell _is going on here, but listen to me _very carefully:_ call off the whatever-that-is _right now_." She spoke in an accent that, like McGonagall's, reminded Milo of the dwarves back home.

With his hands literally tied behind his back, Milo's options were limited. Most of his spells had Somatic components, meaning they required intricate hand gestures—difficult in armour, impossible in handcuffs. He could _Benign Transposition_ to switch places with Mordy, but he'd still be cuffed. Unfortunately, the handcuffs now counted as part of his gear, meaning they'd go with him wherever he teleported. Still, he'd get a pretty decent head start—maybe enough to make it to the Anglia and escape with the Weasleys and, hopefully, Harry.

"Okay, okay!" Milo said as his familiar slipped out of his pocket. The tentacles abruptly vanished, dropping the grappled constable to the ground. With wide eyes and a pale face, he stumbled backwards into the wall, where he sagged to the ground shaking.

"Don't trust him!" Vernon urged, stepping forwards menacingly.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to stand back," the officer pinning him said to Vernon, pulling Milo to his feet. "Evan—dammit, Evan! Pull yourself together and call this in!"

"_Benign Transposition_!" Milo spat, his face pressed up against the floor. Despite managing to get the Verbal Components out properly, his Concentration fizzled out—casting a spell while Pinned was harder than it looked. Fortunately, thanks to a seriously overpowered Feat, Uncanny Forethought, Milo could give the spell another shot. Uncanny Forethought allowed Milo to leave some of his spell slots reserved while preparing them in the morning, and, on the fly, cast a spell mastered with Spell Mastery in its place—of which _Benign Transposition_ was one. Alternatively, Milo could spend his whole turn (meaning he couldn't also move) and cast _any spell _in his spellbook from a reserved slot at -2 caster level (a trivial decrease in spell power). In short, Milo had most of the best aspects of being a Sorcerer while maintaining the versatility of the wide spell selection available to Wizards.

"_Benign Transposition_," Milo cast again, and reappeared in the hall just outside the door. Unfortunately, _Benign Transposition_ required direct line-of-sight and line-of-effect to the target, meaning that Milo had to have an unhindered path from himself to Mordy in order for them to switch places. This severely limited the practical range of the spell indoors.

"Dammit," the policewoman cursed, falling to the floor as the boy she was pinning down was replaced by a rat. Milo awkwardly stumbled to his feet and hobbled towards the exterior door. "Oi! He's making a runner!" she shouted, though her partner—Evan—seemed to be in a state akin to a Barbarian hit by a _Ray of Stupidity_, sitting against the wall with his head in his hands.

Milo had almost reached the front door when the policewoman hit him like a truck. He tumbled down the front steps and was dragged to his feet again.

"Right," she said again, "Where was I? You're under arrest for breaking and entering, hostage taking, carrying of an offensive weapon, and resisting arrest. You have the right to remain silent, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence."

o—o—o—o

"If it's all the same to you," Ron said as the bars slammed shut on them, "could we maybe, you know, forget to mention this to Hermione?"

"What," Fred asked, "that we got nicked by the Muggle please-men?"

"Yeah. That."

"What should we do?" Harry asked. He looked panicked. "The Muggles will all find out about magic!"

"Sorry, what?" Milo asked. "You mean they don't _know _about _magic_?"

The Weasley boys and Harry stared at him in silence for a few seconds.

"You mean you don't _know_?" Ron asked. "Everybody knows!"

"We have to keep magic a secret," Fred explained. "If the Muggles found out, it'd be a disaster. There are two camps on the matter—the first says that we'd get no sleep because Muggles would constantly be bothering us for magical answers to their problems—"

"—which is fine by us, because we could make sacks of galleons helping them, for a small fee—"

"—and those that think they'd try to burn us."

"What," Milo asked. "Seriously? _Burn_ you? Is that idiomatic in your local dialect of Common?""

"No," Fred answered. "They mean, literally burn us. It's happened before. All the real wizards and witches were fine, of course, because they had magic to protect them. But a fair number of Muggles they mistook as us weren't so lucky. You'll learn about it in History of Magic."

"Weird," Milo said. From what he could tell, Muggles were some sort of nonmagical subrace of human with, if that policewoman was any indication, superior physical stats to make up for their clearly deficient mental processes. _You'd have to be as dumb as an Orc to try and set fire to someone you thought was a Wizard_, he mused. "Well, so much for that. This lot are bound to tell the rest. Sorry about blowing your secret world."

"Nah," George said. "This happens all the time. Before you know it, the Ministry will send a team down here and Obliviate everyone, and likely send us off with a warning." Milo noted that George seemed surprisingly unconcerned. He wondered if, perhaps, the Weasley prankster was speaking from experience.

"Oh, happy birthday, Harry," Ron added.

"Don't mention it."

o—o—o—o

"Now, PS Smythe, would you tell me why the bloody _hell_ there are four kids in Hallowe'en costumes in the bin?" Inspector Hannigan asked angrily.

_Hooboy_, Fiona thought. _This will be hard to explain_...

"Well, three of them were driving _well_ underage in a Ford Anglia—"

"What, all three? One for each pedal and another on the wheel?"

"No, sir; only one of them was at the wheel."

The inspector groaned audibly. "Have we alerted their parents?"

"I've been unable to determine their identities," she admitted.

"And the remaining boy?"

"He... was somewhat different," she admitted. "He had a weapon."

"Did he now?" the inspector was surprised. "Kids lately... regardless. What was it—a knife, or a gun?"

Fiona swallowed uncomfortably. "Well, it was sort of like a knife, only a bit larger..."

"A machete?" The inspector's eyes widened. "I'm glad no-one was hurt."

_Ah, close enough_. Somehow, she didn't think that 'he came at me with a prop from _The Princess Bride_' would particularly enhance the credibility of her story. "Which brings me to the matter of why Constable Travis has requested a meeting with psych. What _exactly _happened to Evan in Little Whinging, Sergeant?"

_Well, best get this over with as quickly and simply as possible_. Fiona straightened her back and set her feet before taking a deep breath.

"Magic, sir."

"Magic."

"Yes, sir. Magic."

"You mean PCP?" The department tried to keep ahead of kids' drug slang.

"No, sir. I mean sorcery. Enchantments. Witchcraft. Like in the books."

The inspector leaned back in his padded leather chair. It had been in the office for over a century, and he liked to believe that, no matter how shocking or horrifying the report that came across his desk, some inspector in the past had seen worse and dealt with it. It lent a sense of weight and responsibility to the office, a tradition to uphold.

Somehow, he doubted many of them had had to deal with magic. Of course, on this, he was incorrect—he _himself_ had seen similar reports before, not that he had any way of knowing this.

"You're putting me on." It was not a question.

"No, sir. Tentacles reached out of the walls and attacked my partner, and the boy himself changed places with a rat."

"A rat."

"Yes, sir—or possibly a mouse. But it was still magic."

The inspector began to see a glimmer of hope. "You realize, Sergeant, that the Witchcraft Act of 1735 was repealed in 1951?" He wasn't sure why, but he had vague recollections of researching this in the past. "There's no law against a little conjuration here and there, meaning, if you understand me, that it can be left out of your report." As far as he was concerned, the sergeant's apparent belief in the impossible only became a problem if committed to writing and viewed by his superiors.

"Understood, sir."

"Stick with the machete and the underage driving. We can let the other two go with a warning once we find their parents."

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, and Sergeant—_you're_ dealing with this mess. I expect a full report—a _proper_ one. On The Machine, no less."

"Yes, sir."

Inspector Harrigan hesitated. Fiona had always seemed to have a solid head on her shoulders, though she sometimes had a hard time picking up on hints. Behaviour like this was decidedly... odd. "And I'll be giving medical a call. I think you and PC Travis should have your blood tested, just in case you were exposed to something... odd... at the scene."

"Yes, sir." Inwardly, Fiona groaned—she hated needles.

'The Machine' as it was called, or, more often, 'That Damn Machine' referred to the shiny new Compaq running Windows 3.1. It was the first computer in the Surrey Police, and one of the first in the force nationwide. It had arrived a few weeks ago as an experiment before being employed by the police force on a wider basis, but, despite being called the 'way of the future,' they all knew it would never catch on. Being forced to file a report on The Machine, which was held in a cupboard labelled 'Computer Lab,' was considered a minor, unofficial reprimand.

While waiting for The Machine to boot up through MS-DOS—a process which generally took within the vicinity of a quarter hour—Fiona mentally planned out her report. _Let's see... on the 31__st__ of July, 1992, a 999-Emergency was called in by one Mrs Mason... suspect was a minor carrying a large edged weapon... suspect employed methods of a supernatural nature (which, by itself is perfectly legal after the Witchcraft Act was repealed) to assist in resisting arrest... field of ten-foot rubbery tentacles... sounds about right. Says everything that happened while pointing out that it was not the magic that was illegal._

She had just saved the document to a floppy when the Obliviators Apparated into the room. Fiona leapt to her feet as a half-dozen robed witches and wizards appeared with staccato popping noises, wishing briefly that she was armed. She doubted aikido would be much good against what were, quite plainly, wizards.

"Who the ruddy—"

"_Obliviate!_" Arnold Peasegood shouted, then turned to his men as she sagged back into the chair. "Gumboil, check on her boss; Harley, go find her partner. And someone, go find Arthur Weasley." Three Obliviators vanished with loud pops, and Arnold took a look at the computer on the table. "Anyone know what the hell that is?"

"My aunt's a Muggle," Milton said. "Saw one when I was a kid—that's an eclectic typewriter. It's used for writing."

"A typewriter? Are you sure?" Arnold was surprised. He'd seen them before, but they'd looked very different then. Muggles astounded him more every day.

"Yeah, you can tell because they all say Qwerty on them—that's the name of the Muggle who invented 'em."

"Peculiar name," he mused, staring at the machine.

"He was French."

"Ah. Any chance she wrote about what happened?"

"Could be," Milton mused. "No real way to know."

"Can't be too careful," Arnold said, picking up Fiona's nightstick. With a heavy swing, he smashed the computer's monitor straight hardware heaven. "That ought to do it. We'll have to work this into their memory somehow—a fight with a dangerous criminal, maybe. Now let's go find those boys."


	37. CC 3: Too Quiet

**Author's Notes:** _I'm on TV Tropes!_ Everything I've ever wanted.

**Today's Character Sheet:** myth-weavers com/sheetview php?sheetid=553596

**Chapter Three: Too Quiet...**

"So, anything interesting happen over the summer?" Hermione asked curiously. "I mostly just read—I read _Gadding with Ghouls_, _Break with a Banshee_, and _Travels with Trolls_ four times and _Year with the Yeti _five, but I only had enough time to read _Voyages with Vampires_ twice! Hopefully I can get in another round of each before September."

_Vampires, eh?_ Milo thought to himself, wondering whatever happened to Quirrell's—no, _Voldemort's_—vampires from the year before. As far as he knew, they were still out in the Forbidden Forest, lurking.

The four of them—Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Milo—were waiting outside Madam Malkin's while Ginny got her school uniform. It was the first time they'd seen Hermione since June.

"Nope," Milo said quickly.

"What, nothing?" Hermione asked.

"Nothing at all," Ron added, avoiding eye contact. "We were well-behaved."

"Well, that's a relief—since you've done your readings, maybe this year you can do your _own_ homework." Hermione paused. "You _have_ done the readings, haven't you?"

"Look over there!" Ron gasped. "It's the Grim!" In truth, they didn't even have their textbooks yet. Acquiring them was one of the objectives of their current sidequest.

"Sorry, where?" Hermione turned around, surprised, to where Ron was pointing. However, instead of a pernicious prognostication, there was merely Ollivander's—_or Ollivanders'?_—wand shop, which, in Milo's mind, was only marginally better.

"Must have been my imagination," Ron said quickly. "Shall we, er, go see Quality Quidditch Supplies? Oh, but you two don't like broomsticks. Have fun doing—er—thing!" Grabbing the surprised Harry Potter by his shirtsleeve, Ron practically bolted away through the crowded alley, dragging the bemused Boy-Who-Lived behind him.

"What was that all about?" Hermione asked suspiciously.

"No idea," Milo lied, cursing his friends for abandoning him. He'd have to rely on his Bluff skill. _Come on, nat twenty, don't fail me now..._ "Because he certainly _wasn't_ fleeing to avoid telling you about a disaster—which, and I can't stress this enough—certainly _didn't_ happen in late July."

Hermione stared at him for a second or two, her expression unreadable. "I see." _She totally bought it! You've still got it, Milo_. "Because I thought he was making a runner because he hadn't _actually_ done any advance reading and didn't want to fess up about it."

"Oh, yes, that's _much_ more believable. Let's go with that. Which reminds me: I should probably go get this year's reading list. And I need to send a letter. Want to come with?"

"Well, seeing as how the others have fled my presence, I don't see any particular reason why not. What letter?" Hermione asked curiously.

"My Amulets of Protection from Evil—now that I can make them cheaply, I'm planning to offer them to Ministry."

"That's a really good idea," Hermione approved. "From what I've read, one of the largest problems they had there in the last war was being unable to determine who was under the effects of the Imperius curse, or, even if they could, to counter it. They're _still_ trying to sort out who may have been compromised."

"Exactly. That, and the fact that I can charge whatever I want for them." If the Ministry was interested, he could finally pay Harry back for the small fortune he borrowed from him last year. Material costs aside, he still had to pay the XP cost, meaning he couldn't just give them away—even if he had the time to.

"We can go to the Owl Post Office, and by the time we're done, likely Harry and Ron will have forgotten why they ran off in the first place," Hermione suggested.

The Owl Post Office, as it turned out, was exactly what it sounds like. Owls—Milo _still_ couldn't understand why these wizards relied on _owls_ for post, especially when there were not one but _two_ forms of teleportation (Apparating and Floo powder) available—fluttered in and out through the largely open roof to the floor, where frantic postal workers tied fresh parchment to their legs and beleaguered janitors used magic and enchanted mops in a futile attempt to keep the room clean. And that wasn't even getting to the _noise_. The screech of owls and massed flutter of wings was nearly deafening.

"Morgana's ghost!" Hermione gasped. "It smells like a dung bomb went off in here!"

Milo, choking, wrapped a black silk filter mask from his belt around his face, covering it from the eyes down. While he doubted the smell was poor enough to force him to make a Fortitude save, he wasn't taking any chances.

"How do the employees tolerate it?" Milo asked. Unfortunately, his newfound appreciation for taste had the side-effect of drastically increasing his perception of non-plot-relevant scents. In addition to being a minor hindrance to his plot sense, it could also be extremely annoying.

"Bubble-Head Charm?" she suggested. "Although you'd think that long-term reliance on a small volume of recycled air would weaken the immune system..."

"I think they get enough contact with unsanitary material through other means to make up for that," Milo pointed out. After... _certain events_ last year, he'd decided to spend some time over the summer researching basic medical theory in this world—enough that there wouldn't, hopefully, be a repeat of last Christmas but not enough that he was forced to invest skill ranks cross-class in Heal. "I'd be more worried about what happens to wizards and witches with bad breath."

An obviously-stressed young wizard was sitting behind the counter. His fingernails had all been chewed to the quick, his hair was in disarray, his lips were cracked and his eyes were a bloodshot red—the latter two likely a result of his face being continuously surrounded in dry air for eight hours every day. The source of his problems was evident, as there were scratch-and-peck-marks up and down both arms, layered over scars of earlier ones.

"Are we being robbed? Oh Merlin, we're being robbed!" the post-wizard exclaimed, taking note of Milo's masked face before bolting into a back room, followed by a muffled "_Colloportus!_"

"Er..." Hermione said. "Is there someone _else_ we can talk to?" she asked the room. Eventually, a post-witch showed up, gave them a lecture about scaring their elders, took Milo's letter (and silver) and shooed them out.

"Well, that was decidedly odd," Hermione murmured as they left.

"Agreed," Milo said. "Let us never speak of this place again."

They found Harry and Ron leaving whatever the broomstick shop was called—Milo honestly couldn't care less—and they headed to the bookstore. Milo noticed that Ron and Harry conspicuously kept him between them and Hermione.

The bookstore, as it turned out, was largely empty. Books lined the tall, narrow shelves (in Milo's experience, you could always tell the quality of a bookstore by how cramped the aisles were. By that metric, this one was pure mithril), although most of the textbooks, the store's major draw in August, were already gone. A few posters hung from the walls, each depicting the same handsome man's smiling face.

"Who's he?" Milo asked.

"Gilderoy Lockhart," Ron shrugged. "He's supposed to be this big, famous dark wizard hunter, but his book on dealing with household pests is pretty rubbish."

"That's probably because he's too busy fighting werewolves and vampires to brush up on his dealings with doxies and pixies," Hermione said defensively, browsing through a stack of Miranda Goshawk's _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Two_ . "Which would be obvious if any of you had actually read your textbooks."

"Hold up," Ron said. "How did _you_ get a hold of them so early? This is the first time you've been to Diagon Alley all summer, right? Or you'd have your other supplies, too."

"You _have _heard about owl order, haven't you?" she said, although she turned slightly pink.

"Then how come you didn't get the _Book of Spells_, too?" Harry asked innocently.

Hermione muttered something about a "standing pre-order," shot them an acid look, and went to the counter.

"So, this Gorilla Lockout guy," Milo said thoughtfully. "He's a dark wizard-hunter-type?"

"Pretty much," Ron said. "But if you ask me, he's just famous because the witches, and not a few wizards, all fancy him."

"And he wrote our entire booklist?" Milo pressed.

"Looks like—except for the one by Goshawk," Harry said, scanning over his letter from Hogwarts.

"_And_ he was mentioned earlier this adventure?"

"Er..." Harry said, giving Milo the usual look.

"Dammit," Milo muttered. "Another DADA professor. Now, the question remains—will he prove to be secretly treacherous, like Quirrell, or will he break the expectation created by the precedence of the _last_ professor to be, in fact, secretly _good_ despite our suspicions?"

"_Your_ suspicions, mate," Harry said.

"The poster says he was going to be here yesterday doing a book signing," Ron said. "We would have met him if we hadn't been... delayed."

"The important thing is we were let off with a warning," Harry said, "and we can put that entire ordeal behind us. _Permanently_."

"What ordeal?" Hermione asked, returning with her newly-purchased textbook.

"Ordeal? What ordeal?" Ron asked.

"He meant to say _ore deal_," Milo lied. "We're discussing the acquisition of certain metals of arcane significance for my... magicking." Milo sighed inwardly—you get what you pay for, and he hadn't invested any ranks in Bluff.

"Right," Hermione said skeptically. "Are you three just going to stand around talking, or will you actually get the books you came here for?"

Milo and Ron coughed and discreetly stepped towards the 'used' section. Milo had been sent a sum of money from Hogwarts' Destitute Orphans' Fund this summer that was so modest it was practically bashful. Even used, there was no way he would be able to cover the extensive Lockhart booklist without dipping into the money Harry had lent him for spell research and item crafting.

"What say you we go half-half," Milo suggested quietly to Ron, "then put the Pen of Plagiarism +5 to work?"

"Won't work," Ron said, "all Flourish and Blotts' books are protected against Copying Cha..." Ron drifted off as the penny dropped. Milo's magic would, likely, be able to bypass that protection—although the results could sometimes be unpredictable when the two types of magic interacted.

Ron simply grinned.

"Well, well, well," an unfortunately familiar voice drawled. "If it isn't three jailbirds and their pet mole—oh wait, is that _Granger_ behind those horrid teeth?"

"Malfoy," Harry said through clenched teeth. Draco Malfoy stood leaning against a shelf near the entrance. None of them had seen him enter.

"I'm surprised you'd dare show your faces in public," the blond Slytherin boy continued. "I hear Weasley's father had to use his last remaining favour in the Ministry to get you three off the hook—and himself, for that matter. What was it he said? That that car was simply for experimenting, and not for using? Rather slim excuse, if you ask me, but it _pales_ in comparison to what _you_ did. Tell me, where there many rats in the Muggle prison? Aside from you and your... pets."

"Frankly, I thought you'd learned your lesson last time," Harry said, "as I believe Milo here knocked your teeth in."

"Check your facts, _Potter_," Malfoy sneered. "I only lost _one_ tooth! And don't think you won't pay for that—and what you did to my house."

"A mistake I'm all too ready to remedy," Milo said, putting down _Gadding with Ghouls_ in case he needed his hands for a fight. "And that time, you had the Crabbegoyles with you. Now, the numbers are somewhat stacked against you."

"I wouldn't sully these pureblood fists with your face, freak, even if I was here to fight," Malfoy said contemptuously. "I was simply _so_ surprised to see your faces in public after your little _ordeal_ that curiosity simply required me to determine that it _was_ you, and not some illusion or charm—though I needn't have worried. _Charm_ is not something any of you has in abundance."

"Ooh, a Slytherin with a sharp wit," Ron said with feigned awe. "Someone take it away before he cuts himself with it."

Malfoy gave Ron a look as if he were something sticky he scraped off the bottom of his shoe, and turned to leave. Not being one to allow anyone else to have the last word, he spun around dramatically before leaving the store. "I'll be seeing you at Hogwarts, I presume—though when you discover what's going to happen this year, perhaps you'll wish you'd stayed home with your mothers. Except you, Harry."

Draco slammed the door shut behind him.

"Anyone want to bet that he doesn't yet have a plan and he's, right this second, frantically trying to come up with one to match his boast?" Harry said after a second.

"I feel like I'll regret this, but... you're on," Ron said. "Wonder how he found out about—" Ron froze, and turned to stare at Hermione in horror.

"You were _arrested?_ By the _police?_ The _Muggle police?_" Hermione gasped.

"Milo thought I was in danger," Harry explained.

"He had bloody convincing reasoning, too," Ron added. "A very solid argument. I'm not sure what it was, mind; you'll have to ask him yourself."

"And what reason... never mind. Obviously the dastardly threat to Harry was Milo's impending rescue," Hermione said.

"I think there's something funny with your logic there," Milo said, as he tried to imagine whether it was possible that he could have dropped out of a timeskip due to _himself_ being the threat, in which case he had only dropped out of the timeskip because of what he was about to do after dropping out of the timeskip, which would make for some kind of self-fulfilling, loopy causality. Even thinking about it was beginning to give him a headache, and so he let it rest.

"Now _my_ logic is funny?" Hermione remarked wryly.

"To be fair," interjected Harry, grinning, "Being jailed by the Muggles was a lot more fun than being jailed by the Dursleys. I'd say it was a pretty top-notch rescue."

o—o—o—o

What remained of the summer holidays flew past at the rate of just a few scant words of description per week, with Harry and the Weasleys (which sounded to Milo like a pretty good name for a Bardic troupe) spending most of their time playing Quidditch—a game which, while he approved of it from the dramatic standpoint of making only the PCs and their actions matter, Milo disdained because it involved physical exertion and the ability to ride broomsticks—while Milo tried to keep a low profile. His recent glimpses of the Muggle world had shaken him to a degree that surprised him. They seemed to be able to accomplish the impossible without magic—like cars, for instance. Milo could think of a few means of moving a wheeled vehicle without animal power: the wheels or the whole vehicle could be animated, it could be sail-powered with a permanent _Gust of Wind_, it could be a tiny, mobile stronghold, or, most cost-effectively, it could be moved by controllable poltergeist spirits via _Animate Dead_ and _Hauntshift_. However, all of Milo's plans were either prohibitively expensive in terms of gold, XP, or morals—and, of course, required magic. The more Milo thought about it, magic was really the limiting factor. Magic, save for some trickery relying on extreme Munchkinry, came hand-in-hand with exponential—and fixed—time, gold, and XP costs. Mundane crafting had none of these concerns, with the time being largely based on the creator's skill, tools, and assistants and the cost fluctuating with circumstance and quality. From what he'd seen, the Muggles here nearly _all_ had cars. It boggled the mind. An ordinary peasant from Myra (City of Light! City of _Magic_!) would have to spend nearly three years' wages to buy a good horse and wagon, and all of Milo's proposed self-propelled machines would cost hundreds of times more—except possibly for the last, depending on the availability of relatively intact, low-HD corpses.

He'd owled Hermione, who had gone back to live with her parents until September, to ask how the Muggles managed to make so much _stuff_. She'd asked her mother, and sent back what amounted to a short essay detailing mining, machinery, smelting, and, the production line. Milo had scoffed at the idea of 1st level non-caster NPCs working together to create goods _en masse_—until he did the math. Ninety-nine unskilled Commoners, and one with 4 ranks and Skill Focus in the proper Craft skill, with _one_ set of Masterwork Tools, all using Aid Another (which would give each a 50% chance to add +2) would have a colossal +108 Craft bonus. Using Quick Crafting, higher bonuses would lead to exponential returns. This group could make around thirteen _thousand_ silver pieces worth of goods in a week—compared to the seven silver piece weekly wage they could expect working alone. With other bonuses, such as those from feats, better tools, or a decent Intelligence bonus, that number would increase dramatically. Sure, a Wizard could simply cast _Fabricate_ and turn any raw material into any finished product, but _Fabricate _required a 9th-level Wizard, and how many thousands of level one Commoners were there per 9th-level Wizard?

That led Milo down another track. A horrifying track. It came to him when he tried to explain the differences between the Muggles here and those in Myra (City of Light! City of _Magic_!). He didn't know anything about the state of Muggles outside of England—or, to be honest, outside of Little Whinging—so generalizations were risky. But, even assuming that England was the wealthiest, most powerful empire on this plane, when compared to the Azel Empire, of which Myra (City of Light! City of _Magic_!) was capital, there were horrifying conclusions. Azel was one of the wealthiest human empires from his world. Nevertheless, its average citizens—the NPC commoners—lived in a near-perpetual state of poverty and fear. They had to rely on the happenstance of a passing party of adventurers for protection, and could hardly afford food, much less shelter, as a simple one-room wooden cottage went for 1,000gp (10,000 days' wage) anywhere in the realm. Most people lived in lean-tos built out of quarterstaffs and clubs, thatched with holly and mistletoe, and the other few free items in the book. Their only options for escape were to become another random encounter—that is, banditry—or adventuring. Both options offered the chance at a fortune, but came at the cost of having a _terrible_ retirement plan (the business end of a passing Paladin's longsword or a Red Dragon's stomach, respectively). But the Muggles here, in England, _had_ food, safety, and homes. They had a competent city watch. It was then that Milo realized the reason for it: magic. The wizards here kept their magic a secret for reasons that seemed entirely selfish: the Muggles would never stop bothering them, because they would want magical solutions to all of their problems. In Milo's world, magic was no secret. It was available, it was open. There was a magical solution to any problem—for a price. There was no need to develop a superior plow when you could hire a Druid to cast _Plant Growth_. The reason was clear, and it would keep Milo awake at night: _magic throttled innovation_. In History of Magic, Milo had learned that this world had passed through an era that roughly resembled his world. But the medieval era, as it was called, came and went in a few hundred years. A few hundred years was a _blink_. It was window-dressing. It was a rounding error. Adventurers routinely investigated ruins of civilizations _hundreds of thousands_ of years old that had access to comparable—or even, if their traps were any indication, superior—mundane technology. Hells, Malbutorius the Dark, an epic-level Lich with a soul blacker than the sun isn't, had been a thorn in the side of humanoid civilization since the dawn of _time_. Even the Elves couldn't remember a time when he didn't exist. Milo's world was locked in stasis, and the only reasonable explanation for it was magic.

"Are you coming, or what?" Ron asked him, waving a hand in front of his face.

"Sorry," Milo apologised. "I was..." he was going to say 'in an internal monologue,' but he doubted they had those here. "thinking how we could get back at Malfoy." They were standing in front of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, and the others had all gone through already. _Well, nothing for it..._ Milo ran at the wall, not even having the scant comfort of having luggage ahead of him, in case the barrier unexpectedly turned solid—Milo kept all of his possessions, save for his mountain of salt, in his Belt of Many Pouches.

Despite his concern, he came through the solid-looking wall without problem, followed shortly by Ron.

"Do any of you have a... funny feeling?" Milo asked the group.

"Not another one," Hermione groaned.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"Well, it's like... remember what I told you last year?"

"Er..."

"About how everything we'd see in the early days of the adventure would be important for later," Milo clarified.

"Right, that," Harry said. "What about it?"

"It might be too early to say, but... well, things just haven't been _ominous_ enough," Milo said. "Before you say anything, I _know_ it's a ridiculous thing to complain about. But, frankly, as it is, I have _no idea_ what to expect this year. Have any of you heard any, I don't know, whispered conversations that broke off abruptly when you came near? Or had any foreboding dreams?"

"Nope," Ron admitted.

"Sorry," Harry said. "None of those."

"Maybe it'll be a normal year," Hermione said wistfully, "and we'll be able to focus on our studies and futures."

"Yeah... maybe..." Milo couldn't help but feel as if he was missing something critical as he boarded the train.

On the far side of the platform, Ginny pulled out her new quill (really a hand-me-down from Charlie) and dipped it into her new inkpot (really a hand-me-down from Bill) to hurriedly write in her new leather-bound diary (really fifty years old, but it was, unlike all of her other possessions, so far unused). _September 7__th__, 1992_, she began. _Dear diary,_ _I am about to step on the famous Hogwarts Express (!) for the first time, and I'm very excited-and-sort-of-nervous, though Harry Potter hasn't even noticed me, yet..._

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

**D&D Tip:** The filter mask is an extremely under-appreciated piece of gear. Available for a measly 1gp from Sandstorm (p.99-100), it grants a +2 against gas-based effects (think traps, _Stinking Cloud_, maybe even _Cloudkill_) as well as significant situational bonuses against sandstorms. Also a necessary fashion choice for anyone who wants to play FFI's Red Mage or a ninja of one variety or another. From a purely mechanical standpoint, there's no reason why anyone wouldn't wear one. Besides, who doesn't like keeping track of more conditional modifiers?

**D&D Tip #2:** The crafting trick really works. If wages become tricky to handle, use undead. The problem is that there's a maximum number of skeleton HD you can control that way, based on your level. Make a magic item of Animate Dead 1/day, and pay random commoners to use it for you, and order the resulting abominations to follow your orders. The skeletons don't have to be humans, in fact, I believe it's funniest if they're squirrels. Undead have the advantage of not requiring sleep, so they can work 24 hours per day instead of the usual 8, tripling their effectiveness. With Int -, they have a +0 crafting bonus, so roughly half of them can successfully aid another. They can aid you, or, if you're out adventuring, just aid a regular skeleton. The silver piece value they can make in a week is around, depending on what you craft, 3*((10+skill bonus)^2).

If you have trouble justifying to your DM that nonintelligent squirrel skeletons could make masterwork swords (or whatever), describe it as less of a workshop and more of a production line. Each skeleton does something minor, like move a certain tool or object in a specific way _ad infinitum_. Each squirrel does one step (a single hammer blow, a single scrape with a whetstone) and passes it to the next squirrel.

That's just the tip of the iceberg. If raw material cost (1/3rd of the finished product) becomes a problem, use _Walls of Iron_. 50gp raw materials and 660gp of casting fees produces a _lot_ more than 710gp of iron, which is 1sp/lb. A CL 11 _Wall of Iron_ produces 11*5*5*(1/6)=45.833 cubic feet of iron, which is 22,527lbs, which is 11,263.5gp in raw materials. But double-check that, math is not my strong suit.

Or you could skip the skeletons and just sell raw iron. As a commodity, its value isn't halved for sale. Cha-ching!

_(Don't actually do this)_


	38. CC 4: Railroading

**Today's Character Sheet:** myth-weavers com/sheetview php?sheetid=576619

**Chapter Four: Railroading**

The northern England countryside sped past them at a phenomenal speed as the Hogwarts Express once again vindicated Milo's growing feelings of the inadequacy of magic. Sure, it couldn't beat a _Phantom Horse_, but how many _Phantom Horses_ would it take to carry this many students?

They were missing something. Something important. Milo could feel it in his bones.

o—o

Considering Fiona's typical lack of tact and headstrong approach to policing, it was little wonder that, once the replacement monitor arrived five weeks after a junkie smashed up the last one, she was once again writing a report on the Machine. Now that she'd figured out how to disable caps lock (she was the first in the station to do so; it had been on since it first arrived in June), she was considering herself quite computer literate. She'd developed a few other tricks as well, such  
as the discovery that WordStar did not need to be re-installed with every use, and using the  
control key to copy and paste text. This saved her a significant amount of time, as the police reports re-used quite a lot of the same content, such as headers, footers, signatures, etc.

It was during one such minor act of self-plagiarism that Fiona noticed something disturbing. While altering the body of the text of last week's report to apply to her most recent incident (involving a minor and Illegal Possession of Indelible Markers), she realized that her old report had a few inconsistencies with her memory. There were a few hints here and there—misplaced commas, different sentence constructions, and, of course, the fact that it was, when you really got down to it, completely different and _physically impossible_.

"What the bloody hell!?"

o—o

"Tell me everything you know about Gilded Roy Law Cart," Milo said.

"Well," Harry said, "Hermione here _could_ go on at length about the subject, _or_ you could just do your trick on his books."

"Oh, right." He fished out his half of the reading list from his Belt, and borrowed the other half from Ron (the Pen of Plagiarism +5 was still working quietly in the corner on copying the rest). "_Scholar's Touch_." He tapped each of the seven assigned Lockhart books in quick succession, rapidly absorbing their content. Milo paused as he processed the data.

"Well?" Ron pressed. "Anything?"

"Hmmm..." Harry and Ron leaned in, and Hermione, despite herself, began to look somewhat interested. "Interesting. In _Wandering with Werewolves_, he says that his ideal birthday present would be harmony between all magic and non-magic peoples..."

"And?" Ron asked.

"Nothing," Milo shrugged. "Pet project."

"Oh. Anything else?"

"Hard to say," Milo said. "There's a lot of rubbish in here."

"Hey!" Hermione interjected. "Gilderoy Lockhart is considered one of the greatest, and most courageous, wizards of our time!"

"Curious," Milo mused. "Considering he was in Ravenclaw."

"A person can be _both_ intelligent _and_ brave!" Hermione was indignant. "Being in one house doesn't mean a person can't _also_ have characteristics associated with one or more of the others."

"Relax, Hermione," Harry said. "We all know that's true. You're living proof."

Hermione looked mollified—somewhat, anyway.

"What I meant is that it's odd," Milo clarified, "that a person who is now renowned largely for their bravery would have been sorted into a house that takes those who explicitly value intelligence over bravery."

Hermione shrugged. "It's probably just because action and adventure makes a better story than, say, cutting-edge research, no matter how earthshaking, so that's what we hear about."

"Could be..." Milo felt as though they'd almost hit something key, but barely missed it. "Okay, so maybe old Kilroy is largely irrelevant. What else have we got?"

o—o

Fiona had just re-read the bit about the rubbery tentacles for the seventh time, then, because seven was a magic number, read it again. Couldn't be too careful.

At first, she'd suspected some kind of prank. Maybe one of the other officers had messed around with her files.

But it couldn't have been that. She was the first to handle the computer since the new monitor was put in—except for the tech people, of course. But they didn't have the password to actually _use_ the Machine, which theoretically kept personal information about officers and suspects not generally available to the public (of course, nobody actually _used_ the Machine, so there was little of such information, and in any case, the password was "PaSsWoRd").

Aside from that, it _felt_ right. Fiona hated trusting her gut feeling over facts, but there was something... familiar about the report. It was almost as if she could remember remembering the events, but couldn't remember the events themselves. Every time she tried, she found herself inexplicably remembering an urgent appointment with the Inspector.

Indeed, she suddenly found herself halfway to the hallway, just going to meet him about... _something_.

o—o

"Anyone hear of any _other_ new faculty?" No-one had. "Mysterious prison breakouts? Ominous noises at night? Dark rumours? Inexplicable deaths?" Similarly, nothing.

"Maybe we really _will_ have a normal year," Harry said. "Maybe everything will be okay."

o—o

Lucius Malfoy was in the dangerous position of a man who had everything. And a man who has everything has nowhere left to go but down.

"I still don't see why we didn't just nab him over the summer, bring him here and switch them. It's been a year; she must've had enough time by now," Amycus Carrow said. "The primary objective was a failure, but there's no reason to think the secondary won't be a success." Lucius marked him for the next unpleasant duty that came up.

"We've been over this," Lucius sighed. "The Order had him well protected."

"Well, _I_ for one am not afraid of a stay-at-home mom, her moronic husband, and a bunch of schoolteachers," said Alecto Carrow irritably. "We could have taken them."

"And then what?" Lucius said wearily. "Need I remind you that, the last time you met, the subject in question managed to destroy your wand? In any case, it would have blown our cover. That idiot Fudge doesn't, and can't, know that we're still operating as a group."

"But we aren't, are we?" Amycus Carrow pressed. "Operating. What have we actually _done_? That boy ran off, and we've just been sitting on our thumbs for six months. And now he's in Dumbledore's grasp once more."

"He'd never left it, Amycus. Trust me; Dumbledore had that boy under lock and key, even if it didn't look it."

"Was he, now? So, how, if he was under Dumbledore's _lock and key_, he ended up in the hands of the Muggles?" Alecto had the look of a person who had planned this conversation out in advance. Lucius realized he was treading on dangerous ground.

"There is a difference between keeping a person _in_ and keeping people _out_—"

"Is there?" Amycus interjected. "Because it seems to me as though the _Muggles_ managed to do by accident what you're so afraid of."

Everyone went silent.

"What are you suggesting, Amycus?" Lucius asked coldly. He leaned forward, and used the movement to hide the fact that he loosened his sleeve, ready to draw the wand he had hidden up it. He had another like it on his left, one down the back of his neck, and one strapped to each leg. He'd learned his lesson.

The necessity of subtlety entirely seemed to escape their grasp. Of course even the Muggles could pull off a simple abduction. But to do so without stirring suspicion requires all the delicacy and tact of plucking the sole egg from a Hippogriff's nest.

"Nothing, Lucius," Amycus said, backing down somewhat. "Just frustration caused by the heat." Lucius decided not to point out the fact that it was, in fact, quite cool in his council chamber. Despite the late summer heat, there were charms keeping temperature fluctuations to a minimum. Amycus deliberately chose a thin excuse, and the others would notice it. Still, Lucius's position was tenuous enough as it was. He needed to give them something to do other than fight him, or worse: discover his secret. He _didn't want_ the Dark Lord to return. Things were _better_ now.

It frustrated him to no end that they failed to see what he did. They'd already won—or, at least, the Malfoys had won. There was hardly a department, bureau, or branch of the Ministry that wasn't under his control to one extent or another. He had had influence in every major economic institution and guild, save Gringotts. But then, nobody had any influence over Gringotts. That was the point. Cornelius Fudge may be the Minister for Magic, and Dumbledore may be the Supreme Mugwump and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, but he, Lucius Malfoy, was really in charge of Magical Britain. But they couldn't get over the fact that the Dark Lord was dead, and that mudbloods roamed freely. Lucius hated Muggleborns as much as the next man—well, generally more than the next man, except in this particular company—but couldn't they see that they were going about it the wrong way? The solution wasn't torture and murder. It was much more insidious.

The solution, of course, was bureaucracy. Lucius could—generally—block the hiring and promotions of mudbloods and their sympathizers. On average. Arthur Weasley was evidence of that. Give him ten years, and there wouldn't be a single mudblood heading any department, and simple nepotism would do the rest. In fifty years there wouldn't be one in the Ministry. In a hundred, they'd all be living in ghettoes—not because they were ordered to, but because they couldn't afford anything better. Another generation and they wouldn't be able to afford wands. And he could do what the Dark Lord never could—ensure a successor. The Dark Lord's movement died with him, but there would be a Malfoy guiding British politics and economics for generations.

But people like the Carrows and the Lestranges could never think that way, and, as much as Lucius hated it, he needed these people to maintain his position. He was backed into a corner.

Powerful men backed into a corner did dangerous things.

Lucius told them what to do.

Even the Carrows were surprised.

o—o

Fiona wrapped her arms around herself, shaking gently. She'd been the one to write the report, and she'd somehow forgotten about it—no. She hadn't _just_ forgotten about it, another memory had _replaced _it. Her memories for that exact date and time were _different_ and _incompatible_. That didn't necessarily mean that what she'd written was the truth, and that she'd apprehended a dangerous and violent child armed with supernatural forces, however.

But if she was wrong... why was her memory altered? Who would do that? Who _could_ do that? MI5?

She hadn't been drugged—she'd taken a blood test that very day. Her memories told her it was to make sure she hadn't come into contact with anything dangerous in the drug den she'd raided, but her report said it was to see if the entire event hadn't been brought about by a hallucinogen. Worrisomely, her being sent to the medic—and the fact that she'd written the report on the Machine—implied that she'd told the Inspector, who hadn't liked it. Was his memory altered too? Or was he the one who'd done it?

Either way, the test had cleared her... maybe. Assuming she'd actually taken it, and the medic's report hadn't been tampered with.

One thing she knew—the more people she told about this, the greater the chance that whoever had done this would come back and do it again. Last time they'd tried to destroy the computer evidence—the monitor had been smashed apart that day. It had always seemed weird to her that the violent criminal resisting arrest had somehow made his way into the computer lab. They'd mistaken the monitor for the entire computer. It was an easy mistake to make—Hollywood did it all the time, and in any case, who knew anything about computers?

Anything she did, anyone she spoke to, could trigger whoever had done this to come back and do it again. She'd have to take precautions.

"It isn't paranoia if there really _is_ a conspiracy," Fiona muttered to herself.

o—o

"Here's something," Milo said. "Harry—what _exactly_ were you doing when I came to rescue you last month? No, wait... what were you doing several hours _before_." He had to find out what had triggered his drop out of the timeskip.

"Dunno... Vernon was shouting at me because of Hedwig, who had woken up and was making noise."

"Wait, wait, wait," Milo interrupted. "Who the _hell_ is Hedwig?"

Harry blinked.

"My best and first friend," Harry said. "My pet owl that I got at Diagon Alley? She was a gift from Hagrid. I've told you about her before."

"No, I don't think you have. It would have been in the plot somewhere."

"I have."

"Well, _excuse me_ if I don't remember the name and backstory of every familiar in the party."

"Anyway... the Muggles were being rude, so I said, 'you forgot the magic word' when my aunt asked me to pass something, then they shouted at me more, then..."

"Let me guess—your mind started wandering, longing for school and adventure and friends? Mixed with a bit of recap of what happened last year?"

"Well, yeah. I was bored."

"Dammit," Milo muttered. "It was just the _adventure introduction_. By the DM."

"DM?" Hermione asked.

"Descriptive Monologue."

"Ah."

o—o

"Right, Crabbe, Goyle," Draco Malfoy said to his... friends? Henchmen? Minions? Minions. "This year, we need to take revenge on Milo for _last_ year."

"You mean when he floored the lot of us, boss?"

"Yeah, you mean when he knocked our teeth in, boss?"

"_Tooth_! There was only _one _tooth kicked in!" Draco said, indignantly. "And yes—for that humiliation." When Draco had confronted them in Diagon Alley, he'd been bluffing. He had no plan.

But that was three weeks ago.

"So what's the plan, boss?"

"Yeah, what's the scheme, boss?"

"Well, we've learned the impracticality of what one might call the _direct_ approach—"

"Because we'll get the rest of our teeth kicked in, boss?"

"Yeah, because we'll die of internal bleeding, boss?"

"Yes, now shut up. _But_. He has weak spots, points of vulnerability—"

"What's the difference between a weak spot and a point of vulnerability, boss?"

"Yeah, what's—"

"_Shut_. _Up_. Only one of you needs to ask the question! And there's no difference! I was employing a _rhetorical device_! Repeating the same thing slightly differently was the only way anything would penetrate your thick skull! _Anyway_—"

"So which weak spot do we clobber, boss?"

"Yeah, boss, the kneecaps or—"

"Do _not _finish that sentence, Crabbe." Draco sighed. His father didn't have difficulty dealing with minions. He just told them what to do, and they did it. He'd best just cut to the Snitch, then, and skip the patter. "I'm _saying_ we go for the damn rat."

o—o

"Well, that solves the Mystery of the Timeskip," Milo said. "Unfortunately, _solving_ mysteries is just making the matter worse."

"How so?" Hermione asked.

"We should be _opening_ possible plotlines, not closing them!" Milo was sweating. "Hooks! We need hooks!"

"Just relax," Hermione said. "You don't know there's something malicious happening."

"Yes I do!"

"How?"

"There always is!" Milo insisted, becoming increasingly aggravated. Failure to catch the foreshadowing now would inevitably make things much difficult later on.

"No, there isn't," Hermione reasoned. "We went six months without problem. Remember? You even aced the Transfiguration final."

"Still wondering how you did that," Ron muttered. "You never did tell us."

"I _skipped_ through six months without problem!" Couldn't they see? There was always a plot to kill him, to frame him, to capture him, to kill the king, to kidnap the princess, to destroy the world, to achieve immortality, to summon fell demons from the Abyss... always. That wasn't paranoia, that was _fact_—if there _wasn't_ something horrible going on, he'd simply timeskip through it.

He wasn't timeskipping now. On the other hand... on the other hand, he'd been wrong in July. Maybe he was wrong this time, to... maybe he wasn't in a timeskip simply to establish character?

_If so..._ Milo's Optimizer hindbrain started revving up. _If so, there is a distinct and tangible way that I can capitalize on this time._

"Have I ever told any of you how I was picked on by the other kids?"

Inwardly, Milo grinned. _Roleplaying XP. Easy money._

o—o—o—o

Snape set down the owl letter, thinking very carefully. It wasn't every day that Lucius Malfoy asked him to brew a potion, but then, it wasn't exactly rare, either. The Potions Master's talents were hardly a secret, and he did occasionally get requests from wizards and witches for particularly a difficult brew.

But this situation was different. In those cases, Snape could always refuse, saying that the potion was too dangerous, or even illegal (or simply that brewing it would get in the way of teaching). But with the Malfoys... without blowing his cover as a Death Eater, he'd have no choice but to comply.

Normally this wasn't a problem, and he'd have a bottle of, say, Veritaserum or an antidote in the mail as soon as it could be brewed. Normally, the uses of such a potion in the hands of Lucius Malfoy would be relatively harmless, or, at least, harmless enough to warrant complying to maintain his cover. But this particular potion, and in such a volume...

Half a gallon of Polyjuice, at maximum potency, was enough to keep someone continuously disguised for a little over a month. There was little doubt that this was part of a larger plot, and, more than likely, it wouldn't be to blackmail some minor government official. This was something sinister—and Snape suspected it was no coincidence that the letter arrived on the first day of term.

Snape hurriedly composed a letter to Dumbledore.

o—o—o—o

"...and _that's_ how I first learned magic, _and_ managed to become a Wizard despite being several years under the minimum starting age."

"Clever," Harry said.

"Indeed," said Hermione. "That was a _brilliant_ workaround, I must say."

"I was always rather proud of it," said Milo, which was true, though he was _more _proud of the 400 XP he'd just earned. He wondered if he could always earn roleplaying XP offstage during a timeskip, because, if so, he could be suplexing Kord, the god of strength, before the year was out—assuming he did nothing but talk about his feelings.

"Oh, there's the castle," Ron said, glancing out the window. "We should probably change into our robes before we get there."

"Best hurry," Harry suggested. "We left it late because of Milo's _gripping_ tale."

"Speaking of our robes," Milo said, "I've got something for you guys."

"Oh?" Hermione asked curiously.

"We seem to get into trouble of a rather... physical nature fairly frequently."

"That's one way to put it," said Ron. "I've still got the scars."

"Right. To mitigate this problem somewhat, I've made four sets of robes similar to mine."

"We're wearing _uniforms_, mate," Ron said. "Of _course_ they're similar to yours."

"I meant magically similar."

"Oh. That makes much more sense."

"Anyway," Milo said, passing out the robes he was keeping in his belt. "They're like a scaled-back version of my robes. You obviously wouldn't benefit from the bonus mine gives me to Conjuration spells, so I just made ones with the armour bonus. Now, I'm not really sure how an AC bonus will affect you three, because I'm not completely certain you _have_ an AC. However it works, though, your uniforms are now the defensive equivalent of a solid steel plate. Won't do anything against magic, of course, but it'll do wonders against pointy things." When it came down to it, they were just Bracers of Armour +4, but took the torso body slot instead.

"Brilliant," Ron said. "With one of these, I can _finally_ tell Malfoy what I really think of him... with my _fists_."

"That last bit was implied," Hermione said. "You really didn't need to clarify."

"And it'll help in case I get caught by a stray bludger!" added Harry. "For a while, anyway." Harry was keenly aware that his ankles were already starting to peek out from under his usual uniform.

"Oh, like all magic gear, it'll resize to fit," said Milo. "Theoretically, it'll last forever. As an added perk, they've got holy symbols of nearly every deity I could think of stitched on them—in black. They may be invisible, but they're still there. Any vampires that come near are in for a nasty shock." He'd retrofitted his own robes with them, as well. Making something count as a holy symbol came with multiple perks and no downsides, so there was little reason not to.

Hermione frowned.

"If they're not as good as the one you're wearing," she said slowly, "why did you make four? There's only three of us."

"Oh, you know... just in case," he said evasively.

"Right," Hermione said skeptically. She looked like she was going to say more, but was cut off by the train's horn and the screech of brakes as the Hogwarts Express came to a stop at its destination.

It was with some trepidation that Milo stood to exit their vehicle. This wasn't the first time he'd entered a potentially dangerous situation without any idea what to expect, but he had a... well, a feeling. A sense of dread. It was hard to explain, as it lay outside of his two usual methods of prediction—magic and metagaming. They were comfortable, reliable. They could be analyzed.

This was... fluff. Fluff implied interference from the DM (the Destiny Manipulator). Despite the best attempts of gods and PCs, it was the DM that had the final say.

As Milo took his first step on the worn stone platform of the Hogwarts Express's final and only station, he hoped fervently that any perceived symbolism was purely coincidental.

o—o—o—o—o—o—o

**Author's Notes:** Hilariously, considering Fiona's first section, I just edited out a number of weird formatting issues caused by copy-pasting.

**D&D Tip:** Complete Scoundrel's Nimble Charge skill trick (CS 83,87) allows you to charge or run over "a difficult surface" without needing to make a Balance check once per encounter. Consult your DM for the limits of that ability, but by a strict (ie, unrealistic) reading of the rule, it lets you run across clouds (DC 120) once a combat at level 2.

Under more realistic interpretations, you can still do really, _really_ cool things with 100% reliability, such as charge across ropes, rigging, and (with Tumble) the weapons of your enemies. Combine with a Grapple-Firing Crossbow for _extreme_ awesome.

Happy gaming, folks!


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